Heart of the Father
by aneverfixedmarkk
Summary: With the ring of ancestor James Herondale, Jace seeks the truth from the mysterious warlock, Tessa Gray. What he finds changes his understanding of the Shadow world, and of what it means to be an Herondale; And the offer of a gift... but will he accept?
1. Chapter 1

Heart of the Father

Jace looked down at the ring in his hand. The silver shone in the light of his bedroom in the Institute, and the engraved image of a bird taking flight reflected in his golden eyes.

"I wonder why she had it," he mused in a hushed voice, twisting it in his fingers. He knew that somehow Tessa Gray had a deep connection with the Shadowhunters, but it was decidedly unlike any Shadowhunter to leave such a personal heirloom with a Downworlder. He supposed Alec would do something of the like with Magnus – but they were a new situation entirely – unique to Shadowhunter history.

"She said it belonged to James Herondale," said Clary, her green eyes watching him from her perch beside him on the bed. "He must be at least a generation or two back; Imogen was married to a Marcus, right?"

Jace didn't know a lot about the Herondale family – only what his father had left in scrawled handwriting. Words of love and praise – worlds away and about as real to Jace as a Heffelump or Woozle. How was he supposed to understand a man whom he'd never known to exist a year ago? Blood was thick but… it didn't feel quite as thick as ages of praise had made it seem.

Jace nodded and looked up. "Institutes usually keep records of family trees and lineages in the library. Maybe there will be something in there about James Herondale."

Clary looked surprised. "Maybe." She paused. Jace implored her with his eyes, looking into hers quizzically. She chewed on her lip, gazing at him curiously before speaking. "I was just thinking – if they keep family histories in the library, why haven't you looked in there before? You know… just… to understand more? You've seemed so confused…"

"Yes," Jace conceded. He knew it would have been the rational thing to do. But one long lost relative had been enough for him at the time. And besides, they'd been dealing with so much, it had hardly seemed the time to start perusing old books to see what sort of ridiculous mustache his great-great-great-great grandfather had fashioned for himself in the eighteen hundreds. "But, I wasn't sure…" he shrugged, and ran his fingers through his hair, and Clary noticed he had put the Herondale ring on his finger again. "It seemed overwhelming. And also… distant." He looked at the ring on his hand, and shrugged. "I guess this gives me an excuse. Come on, let's go before Maryse goes in there."

"Do all the Institutes keep the same records?" Clary asked as Jace led her through the shelves, eyes scanning the gold plated shelf labels.

He nodded. "The Silent Brothers have the real library in the Bone City. The Institutes keep the basics, the necessities; the Shadowhunter Codex, instruction manuals, demonologies, the histories, and Shadowhunter records. And then, every institute has its own unique collection. But the books that every Institute contains, those are all linked to the originals in the Bone City."

"The originals?"

"Information needs to be updated frequently. There are runes that bind things together – not unlike the one tying me to Sebastian," he scowled at the thought as he paused in front of a stack and began to climb the ladder upward. "What is in one book is in the other. As the librarians of the Shadowhunters, the Silent Brothers are responsible for keeping the records up to date."

His fingers skim, twiddling, along the rows of spines. Light poured in through the stained glass window depicting the familiar image of Raziel rising from the lake. The colored light shadowed his face, illuminating half with magentas and navies, and casting the other half into darkness. To Clary, he looked like a work of art himself; carefully sculpted and colored… an angel among the earthly planes.

"Here," said Jace in small triumph, pulling a large brown mass from a shelf, and began to climb back down the ladder.

Taking Clary's hand, he pulled her toward one of the tables in the middle of the room. They sat, and Jace set the book on the table. It was brown, heavy leather, a golden medallion emblazoned in the center, the same image of a bird taking flight as on the Herondale ring, and below it, in elegant script the word "Herondale" shining proudly.

Tentatively, Jace opened the front page. There laid an inscription, written in hand with a flourish.

"_Is not this house as nigh heaven as my own?" – Sir Thomas Moore_

The next page had a dedication, general words about the strength and honor of the Herondale family and name. Jace, not having much patience with it, turned the page again. "Table of Contents;" with the outlined family tree, the descriptions of the family members individually (birth and death dates, special or unusual characteristics, marriages, children, parabatai, counsel positions… etc.), and even family portraits at the very back.

"Individual descriptions," Jace mutters, and finds the page number. His long fingers flip through the pages delicately. "Excellent. There's only one James." He says, and begins to read aloud.

**James Herondale; 1886 – 1963**

**m. Cordelia Carstairs **

**p. Matthew Fairchild**

**Child of William and Theresa Herondale**

**Elder brother of Lucie Herondale**

**Father to Owen Herondale**

_**Warlock blood present; effects – various **_

"Warlock blood?" Clary piped up in surprise. "I didn't know that was possible. Aren't warlocks sterile?"

"It isn't possible," Jace agrees, his brow furrowed. "Effects various?" He mused, and turned the page back one, hoping for an explanation. Surely Hodge would have mentioned if such a thing were possible? It seemed like an inexcusable gap in their tutoring. Shadowhunters generally burdened themselves with the task of knowing every tiny detail about the Downworld community and their physical abilities or limits. It helped them keep tabs – records. And came in handy if they were to need some sort of upper hand on a group of unruly Downworlders…

He flipped the page.

**William Herondale; 1861 – 1937**

**m. Theresa Gray (warlock/ unmarked Shadowhunter)**

**p. James Carstairs**

**Child of Edmund and Lynette Herondale**

**Younger to Ella, elder to Cecily Herondale**

**Father to James and Lucie Herondale **

William Herondale… he recognized the name. For a moment he couldn't place it, and then he remembered; It was the same name in the copy of _A Tale of Two Cities _he'd gotten from Valentine. And below that, married to…

"Theresa Gray?" Jace looked up, meeting Clary's equally surprised eyes. "As in… Tessa Gray?"

"She is a warlock," Clary's said fervently, and Jace could practically feel the excitement radiating off of her like waves of heat. "And that would make sense for her to have the ring – if James Herondale were her son… But warlocks are sterile!"

"It says she's both warlock and _unmarked_ Shadowhunter." Whatever clarification Jace had hoped to find about James Herondale by turning the page back, immediately vanished. And he suddenly felt a little bitterness toward his former tutor for clearly not having explained the logistics of warlock-ism thoroughly. "A Shadowhunter without marks? And a warlock? What kind of Shadowhunter is unmarked? But it makes no sense. Everything we know about Warlock and Shadowhunter procreation says that the offspring are stillborn."

"But look! James Carstairs!" Clary pointed at the page, her finger jamming hard against the paper. "James as in Brother Zachariah?"

Jace shook his head instinctively. "No… family names are usually kept throughout generations… there could be five different James Carstairs for all we know, Clary."

"But Jace, that would fit too! He's been a Silent Brother for a long time, he said. And if he were William Herondale's _parabatai, _that would explain his devotion to the Herondales, and how he knows Tessa –" she stopped, and screwed up her face. "That's… that would mean…"

Jace knew what she meant, and his nose crinkled. Suddenly he had a frightening image in his mind of Alec becoming one of the Brotherhood, and years after he himself were dead and buried, Alec and Clary somehow… He shook his head vehemently.

"That would mean William Herondale's _parabatai _and wife from… a hundred and thirty years ago are now doing the horizontal tango." He shook his head in disbelief. "As long as a hundred and thirty years is…" He stared at the page with intense focus.

A warlock Shadowhunter. No, that didn't add up.

A warlock Shadowhunter who could have children. _Nephilim _children. That was like saying two and two equated to five.

A warlock Shadowhunter living years past her Shadowhunter husband's death, only to eventually end up with her Shadowhunter husband's _parabatai_ who was a Silent Brother until he wasn't…

It _clearly _did not add up.

"I'm still confused." He slumped in his chair. "Maybe…" he sat a little straighter, then grimaced and slumped again in his chair with a huff. "Nope. This makes no sense. Color me confused." He was beginning to think he'd been right before when the thought of trying to piece together any more family history than simply Stephen Herondale would be too much.

"Tessa did say that if you ever wanted to talk to someone about your family – I mean, I guess if any of this is true it would make her technically… your…" Clary counted backward on her fingers, mouthing silently. "Your great, great, great, great grandmother."

Jace's eyes widened. "Sure, I have a great- times-four great grandmother casually hanging out down the lane from me despite the fact that she looks like she could be my older sister." _If_ this were true. Which it wasn't. Because it was impossible. Physically, historically, supernaturally impossible.

And yet…

He dropped his face into his hands. "I could have living family," he whispered. He had living family – a hundred and fifty year old family that still lived, when none of the appropriately aged family had lived. It made his head spin. And his great-whatever grandmother was a Warlock? A warlock-Shadowhunter? His head was pounding and he could feel a headache coming on…

It was a moment before he looked up, Clary waiting silently with her concerned eyes, and said, "How do I contact Tessa Gray?"


	2. Chapter 2

Jace stood nervously in the weapons room, leaning against the table perched on high legs that was used for sharpening knifes. Clary had spoken to Jocelyn, who had spoken to Tessa Gray, and had arranged a meeting via short notes. Very short notes, which gave nothing away, he might add.

_Miss Gray,_

_ I was wondering if I might meet with you at your earliest convenience. Clary has given me the ring you so kindly offered, and I had some questions – as well as a desire to thank you personally. It is my understanding that it belonged to someone special to you._

_Regards,_

_Jace Herondale_

_Mr. Herondale,_

_ It would be my pleasure to meet with you, and to answer any questions you might have. You will forgive me for not introducing myself at Mrs. Garroway's wedding; I did not wish to overwhelm you. Would you amenable to meeting this Wednesday at noon? You may choose a place of your liking, if you wish._

_I look forward to meeting you at last._

_Sincerely,_

_Theresa Gray_

Jace had asked to meet at the Institute – he wasn't sure where else would be an appropriate venue to meet one's great, great, great, great grandmother. Somehow, a Starbucks in Soho didn't seem to fit the bill. Although that had been Simon's suggestion. Which was likely the reason Jace had disliked it so thoroughly.

He looked up at the grandfather clock on the opposite end of the room. It was five minutes till noon. He chewed the inside of his cheek – a bad habit of his. With an effort, he kept his face stoic, his gaze calm as the air before a storm.

Clary poked her head in the door massive door before entering. She was getting quieter, even without the soundless runes. Her tread was soft as a cat's now. Soft as a Shadowhunter's. "Izzy and Simon left with Alec to go to the Silent City to talk about Simon's ascension." She said quietly, entering the room. "They got the okay from the Clave – they'll examine his mental status and memory loss."

She came to a stop just in front of him, and took his hand. Jace nodded. "That's good. I don't know how they'll remove such a powerful block but…" he sighed, knowing that she was trying to distract him from his nerves, and knowing that it was useless. He'd had three days to prepare for this meeting, and had thought he'd be sick every second of it. Maryse had been on pins and needles as well – worrying restlessly about how this would effect him. But, stoic as ever, she never said a word. It was only years of living under the same roof that held him in acute awareness of her moods.

His own behavior probably hadn't helped much. He'd been fidgety and restless – always asking Alec and Izzy to train with him, though he knew they had better things to do. It just seemed so much simpler to calm his thoughts when he focused more on throwing sharp objects than on his actual _emotions. _

Jace straightened, as annoyed with himself as ever. "Come on," he said, taking Clary's hand in his delicately. "They'll be here soon."

Together they left the room, heading down through the empty halls. Jace counted his breaths, a Shadowhunting tactic for calming that he hadn't used since he was ten. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. First and foremost – _how_? An expletive in his head that he saw with many exclamations and question marks.

Some questions though… well, some might seem impertinent. He wondered if Tessa Gray would be offended. Maybe she would slap him. But he had to ask. Her husband's _parabatai? _If that was the same James Carstairs.

And had she known his father? His mother? Why didn't James keep the ring, or give it to his own son? And… _What_ was she? And did he have any of it? And how – how did, what did, William Herondale do to James Carstairs to make him so loyal and yet…

The doorbell chimed throughout the Institute. All of Jace's nerves seemed to seize up inside of him, and for a second, he thought he might be sick. But Clary's hand in his squeezed softly, recalling him to earth. He looked to her, and smiled reassuringly. He would _not _fall apart. Nephilim did not fall apart. Jace Herondale did not fall apart.

Jace _Herondale_. Oh by the Angel…

Hastening, he moved down the hallway. He knew ringing the doorbell was a gesture – an unnecessary action in order to show him that she respected his privacy and comfort. After all, Shadowhunters needn't ask permission to enter the Institute.

They reached the entrance, slowing down and smoothing their appearances minutely. With a breath, and a comforting light kiss on the cheek from Clary, Jace opened the door.

Tessa Gray stood in the bright, mid-day light; soft pale face and brown hair, dressed in a modest blue dress with a white collar. She looked familiar… not intimately, but as if he'd seen the face around the city, maybe sometimes on the same bus schedule… If anything, he could under no circumstances imagine her being his great, great, great, great grandmother.

Behind her was James Carstairs, smiling genially, dressed casually in a white shirt. He looked healthier than the last time Jace had seen him. Healthier and… happier. Much happier. Like a school boy about to leap out of his shoes with joy.

"Miss Gray," Jace ventured, not sure how formal he should be, if at all, "Mr. Carstairs, thank you for coming."

Tessa smiled, and her grey eyes crinkled at the corners. There was a look in her face that he didn't understand; a blind happiness. Her grey eyes were alight, sparkling, animated. "Please, call me Tessa," she said, and her voice was thick, and sweet. It made the hairs on Jace's neck prickle.

"And I Jem," the former Silent Brother added.

"Tessa and Jem," Jace nodded. "And you know Clary," he said, gesturing to Clary beside him. They exchanged polite hellos, and Jace offered to lead them inside.

"I thought we could go to the sitting room," said Jace, motioning them inside a large open room with plush couches and a large piano.

Tessa and Jem sat in one of the mauve colored couches, their hands linked, opposite Jace and Clary on their own mauve love-seat, and a small silence followed. "Ah.." Jace started, searching for words. After a moment, he slowly held up is hand to them, the back of his hand facing them. "This ring," he began. "I wanted to thank you. To have something of the Herondale family, makes me one of them… it means a lot. Thank you."

He hoped they would understand, hoped that they would not expect from him more than he could give. He didn't want to let Tessa down – Tessa who had apparently –potentially – been alive for so many generations of Herondales to accomplish so much…

"I believe you are more of an Herondale than you realize," she answered quietly. "You do not need any kind of justification. Though, I am glad you like the ring." She offered him a small smile.

Jace paused, thinking. Where to begin?

"You told Clary that it belonged to James Herondale."

Tessa nodded.

"He was your son?"

Again she nodded, this time more slowly. Jace sucked in a breath. There it was. She really _was_ the same Theresa Herondale that had been described in the family records. Beside him, Clary put a hand on his knee. They exchanged a look. _Whoah._

Out of the corner of his eye, Jace noticed Jem's peculiar expression; his eyes on Tessa, carefully assessing her and measuring her reaction.

Eager for more information, he started again. "Could I ask… I mean, would you tell me…"

"I will answer any questions you have, no matter the subject," she assured him, to his great surprise. No matter the subject? Maybe being blunt was the best way to go. No use beating around the proverbial family bush?

"Then… how are you… you know… uh, sorry - "

_Casually asks his ancient-but-not-so-ancient-looking-long-lost-relative what sort of creature they are. As smooth as one could be. _

Tessa laughs, a short, happy sound. "A reasonable question. I am a warlock and a Shadowhunter, it is true. My mother was an unmarked Shadowhunter, raised by mundanes, and my father an Eidelon demon. Without the Marks, I was born."

"And you're immortal?"

"Yes,"

"But your son…" he started tentatively, sure that this was a subject that would be painful or uncomfortable to talk about.

"James and Lucie, my children, were mortal," she said, her voice far away. "As was their father." Her voice, though measured, ached with sadness. He could see it in her eyes as she said the words… it was the same look he'd had on his own face when he'd thought his father had died. Immeasurable loss. The loss of something impossible to hold again.

And Jace felt some sadness for her. To watch your children and grandchildren die… but he had more questions.

"William Herondale," he nodded, and cleared his throat, which had become thick. "And…" he turned to Jem now, "Your _parabatai_. That's why you care for the Herondales so much?"

Jace almost regretted asking. The look on Jem's face… There was an ancient sadness in his eyes when he spoke his next words. And because Jace had a _parabatai _of his own, he understood it – yet could not imagine it.

"Yes, Will Herondale was my _parabatai_; Until I became a Silent Brother." He said, his voice as evenly composed as Tessa's had been. "But there are bonds stronger than the rituals of the Brothers, and so much stronger than the passing of time. I have always looked after Will's family as if they were my own. They were, in a way." He paused, and almost as an afterthought added, "James used to call me Uncle Brother Zachariah," he said. Tessa took in a heady breath, but smiled at the memory.

Jace felt awkward as he motioned to the pair of them. "And… you both…"

"That is a long story," Tessa said. But as she did, she took Jem's hand in hers, and between them Jace saw a familiar look that he often affiliated with himself and Clary. "But… perhaps if you hear it, you will understand what I mean when I say you are more Herondale than you might imagine. Would you like to hear it?"

Without hesitation, Jace nodded vehemently. Her words were enough to elicit his response, if not for his curiosity that he felt rivaled even Clary's.

Jace listened intently as Tessa divulged her personal history; A horrifying tale of changelings, unmarked Shadowhunters, and demons. It was hard to imagine a time when tensions between Downworlders and Shadowhunters had been so high, when they had so deeply despised one another. He had friends in Downworld now. Simon – when he had been a vampire – Maia and Luke, and Magnus. Albeit, if you'd told Jace two years ago that his girlfriend's father would be a werewolf and his _parabatai _would be all but engaged to the High Warlock of Brooklyn, he probably would have laughed in your face.

The tale continued to new heights; A curse that set a young boy to turn away from his family and all he loved; A drug that gave an orphan only a few years to live. And a bond between them stronger and thicker than either blood or water – and their love for the same girl, her heart splitting in two for love of them both.

It was almost unimaginable, that the trio's love for each other could be all so equal and all so pure. It seemed unnatural – _You can't love two people at once_, Jace wanted to think. And if you could, surely you must love one more than the other. With all he'd experience with Clary - it seemed impossible.

But to look at Tessa as she spoke and to think these things with any sort of conviction _was _impossible. You could see in in her face, the truth of the matter. And even on Jem's, his absolute distraught over the loss of his _parabatai_, and his absolute love and joy for the woman beside him.

While every part of Jace wanted to reject the idea, there was no way of doing so without knowing he was wrong. Especially when Jem entered his own memories into the story – remembering how Will had said goodbye to him at the Institute in London when he'd first started the transformation into becoming a silent brother… how any time the Silent Brothers were called upon, Will would rush straight to Jem – and though so much kept them apart, the truth of it was that it never could.

"Will died when he was seventy-six years old. Jem and I were both with him when he passed," Tessa's voice shook, the soft tenor of it wavering as she steadied herself, trying not to cry. "I left after that. I couldn't stay to watch James and Lucie…" she swallowed, and took a deep breath to keep her composure. "I've always watched over my family – helped and guided, distantly, when I could – but I've been alone since Will. Until Jem returned." She took Jem's hand and smiled at him, their eyes meeting.

"And we have you to thank for that," Jem said, looking to Jace. "You and your heavenly fire that scourged the yin fen from my veins, allowing me to live without the magic of the Brotherhood and to return to Tessa."

It was high praise that he knew he didn't deserve; if it had been any other Silent Brother, they surely would have died. _But it wasn't, _a small, unfamiliar voice said softly in the back of his mind. _There is a reason it was Brother Zachariah… a reason it was Jem, and only Jem who would… _

"But I didn't actually do anything," Jace mumbled, his face heating. He cursed himself internally.

"Perhaps not on purpose, no…" Jem agreed his tone musing and his dark eyes thoughtful. He seemed to consider Jace for a moment.

"You are very much like Will, oddly. It is… comforting, and warming, to see it. That in some part he lives on." And suddenly he sat forward, eyes intense. "It may not have been intentional, but _thank _you, Jace Herondale, for allowing me to return to Tessa, for the opportunity to be returned with my _parabatai _in the next world, whatever it may be. Great river or turning wheel. I could never, _never_ thank you enough for such a gift."

Jace hardly knew what to say.

A part of him, the stubborn part – and some part, that had loved Valentine, his father – wanted to rebuke the insinuation that he was like anyone, even the Herondales, that he was anything but himself.

Apparently he'd made all the difference in these two people's lives – two people who had known and loved his family, and in some way seemed to know parts of him, too, and to love him. Who told him he was like others in his family, to tell him definitively that he wasn't just Valentine's creation – wrought of metal and iron in his image.

To know that he wasn't just some _thing _that had come from no one and had nothing that tied him to the earth, or to the Shadowhunters… It was somewhat comforting. Unnerving and comforting, simultaneously.

He began to chew his inner cheek again.

"I… I'm glad that I did something that brought you both happiness." He managed to say. "Your husband sounds like someone I would have admired."

Tessa's mouth turned up at the corners, crinkling her eyes in genuine happiness. "He was wonderful. And I am glad to share his story with you, that he might not be forgotten."

Nodding, Jace tried to keep his head straight. He had so many questions, but his mind was still reeling from Tessa's tale. "Uhm," he paused, deciding where to begin. "You said you watched over your family – or just the children or…" he trailed off, hoping she'd understood the implied question.

"I watched over all the generations. I couldn't stay and watch my children or grandchildren pass on, but I did want to know that they were safe, and happy. And they were – until… well until the beginnings of the Circle."

Until Valentine. Until Stephen joined the Circle, breaking his family's heart, until he left Amatis, until he died and Marcus and Celine Herondale followed not far behind.

"Did you know him?" Jace asked in a whisper. "Stephen?"

Tessa's face was still, a hint of sadness in her eyes. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "I did." She said, "He was a good man, Jace. He may have made some rather dreadful decisions, but in the end, he learned from his mistakes. And he was not cruel or thoughtless… he was misguided…"

It was hard for Jace not to snort. "Dreadful decisions." He wanted to retort that Stephen was corruptible and disloyal.

"It sounds like you knew him well," said Clary quietly.

Tessa nodded. "I was one of the few he confided in when he began to see Valentine's true nature."

At that, Jace looked up. "What?"

"There was a raid one day – Valentine had been torturing a group of werewolves, some children… And a number of Shadowhunters had come to stop them. Valentine killed them, other Shadowhunters. And Stephen knew it was wrong; that _everything _they had done was wrong." She shook her head sadly. "Magnus Bane was there that day, and something he said to Stephen… well, Stephen appeared on my doorstep that night. He was shaken, terribly so. He'd seen Valentine that day, really _seen _him. And it terrified him – terrified him over what he'd done."

"Then why didn't he leave?" Jace asked, frustrated. If his father hadn't been so weak as to succumb to Valentine, Jace might not have grown up an orphan. It was a resentment he hadn't quite realized he'd held for his biological father until he'd decided to face the feelings head on.

"He knew Valentine wouldn't let him leave. He knew Valentine would kill him. He began to suspect that that was what had happened to Lucian Greymark. And Celine was pregnant; he didn't want to abandon her, or their son." She looked at Jace, and the tinge of sadness had come full bloom in her eyes. "He was forming a plan to get out – to stop Valentine - but he was killed before he could."

This was new information to Jace. He sat in stunned silence, absorbing. He had known that Stephen had begun to doubt Valentine, but hadn't known that his doubt had grown into so much more. And he hadn't realized that there had been limits to what Stephen would do for Valentine.

He thought of Jocelyn, who had loved Valentine. She had seen his dark nature, that he had been a zealot, and what he had done to their son. He thought of Luke, who didn't leave the Circle until he'd been bitten, when Jocelyn had spoken of her fears to him. And he thought of Robert and Maryse. They hadn't left – hadn't _wanted _to leave, as far as he knew. And yet, for Stephen Herondale's involvement, Jace had held a bitter resentment. Why did he hold this man, who should have been his father, to a higher standard than anyone else?

And suddenly he knew it was because Clary and Alec and Isabelle all still had their parents, and he didn't. Stephen was dead. He was dead and had never been there to tell Jace of his mistakes, to explain why he'd done the things he'd done. And Jace had grown up without his father, without a mother.

"I didn't know he'd wanted to leave," Jace whispered, his eyes fixed and unseeing on a spot on the coffee table.

"You never knew him, Jace, and that is a sadness. He wanted to know you so badly; wanted to be there for you, his son. He wanted to watch you grow into a man. He loved you before you far before you were born."

"I may attest to that," Jem said. "I was the Silent Brother called to examine Celine when she was pregnant – as I had done for all the Herondale children since James and Lucie." He smiled at something. A memory, Jace thought. "Stephen was beside himself, so concerned about the baby. I believe the only adequate word to describe his state would be 'frazzled.'" He chuckled. "When he heard he would have a son, he almost began to weep – and then left the manor house immediately. It is my understanding that he came back with a colossal assortment of toys weapons, and had a horse breeder contacted, saying he would require the finest stallion alive."

Jace felt robbed. Somehow. Robbed of the life where love and gifts were given freely. But a thought nagged him at the back of his mind.

"But he didn't love my mother," he said, hearing the bitterness in his own voice. "He loved Amatis – but he left her and married my mother because Valentine told him to." Beside him, he felt Clary tense.

"It is true that I don't believe Stephen ever loved anyone the way he loved Amatis," Tessa conceded slowly. "She was certainly the love of his life… she was the only other person he spoke to of his doubts in Valentine. I know they continued to talk after he married Celine. But that does not mean he did not care for your mother. He loved her, cared for her, worried about her and wanted to take care of her. Although… I cannot speak for him."

"Then I'll never know," Jace said, throwing up his hands and standing up. He could feel three pairs of eyes on him as he walked to the window. "He's gone. And so is she." He stared down at the traffic below, feeling the weight in his chest threaten to crush him.

And for what reason? He'd never had any illusions about ever understanding Stephen completely – his letters had given him some piece of his father, but there would never be the sort of understanding he'd had with Valentine. Or the hero worship that came with having a father. And as for his mother… He'd never given much thought to her. Even as a child – Valentine had never mentioned his wife, or Jace ever having had a mother. But he had at least thought that his father would have loved his mother… or was he just the product of something Valentine had manipulated into being.

He heard her approach, but made no move to stop her. She placed her hand on his shoulder, and his eyes moved to her face. She was only a few inches shorter than him, and her grey eyes, though sharp and clear, grazed his face gently.

"I know that you have faced and overcome much in your life," Tessa's voice was gentle, gentle as her hand still on his shoulder. It was warm, and careful, and even with his chest a heavy weight, he felt himself release the tension in his arms and back. "And in spite of it," she continued, "You have become such a brace, strong, and kind man. A _good _man. You have lost so much…" she looked at him, her eyes brimmed slightly with tears, though she did not let them fall. "I would like to give you something, Jace – something that is yours, should you wish to take it."

Jace stood absolutely still, and his gold eyes stared back into her grey ones.

"You have never known your father, despite how he loved you – how he wanted you. And if to speak to him were something you would want, I would give it to you."

"_What_?" his voice came out in a whisper, his heart pounding against his rib cage.

"My power allows me to _become _anyone – living or dead – in both physical appearance and mind. If you so wished it, I would Change, become Stephen Herondale, so that you may meet him, and find the answers that no one else can give you. To try to find peace and to know where you come from."

It was a moment before Jace could unstick his throat. Voice shaking, he said, "You would do that? And… it would be really him?"

She nodded.

"But…" he didn't even know how to begin to understand.

"I have experienced the Change before – and when those who have died cling to words unspoken, they are eager to speak." She looked at him steadily, and Jace realized she was holding his hands in her own. "It would truly be Stephen Herondale. The choice is yours, Jace."


	3. Chapter 3

It was hot out – far too hot for a city as congested as New York. The humidity stuck to the air like a plague. The backs of every soul in the city dripped with sweat, and clung to the fabric of their shirts – silken blouse and polyester-cotton-blend wife beater alike. Most people in the city were seeking refuge in any of air-conditioned haven they could find. But not the Shadowhunters of the New York Institute.

Jace, Alec, and Isabelle were seated under the shade of a maple tree in Central Park. Izzy, in her shortest shorts and thinnest top, was still fanning herself, and scowling at how her brothers could be wearing full-length pants without spontaneously combusting into flames. Then again, Jace at least had something much bigger on his mind.

"Will Herondale?" Alec asked for the sixth time from his post against the trunk of the tree. "You're sure?"

Jace glared at Alec unhappily. Alec held up his hands defensively. "Hey, all I'm saying is that if _your _boyfriend's ancient vampire lover made an insinuation that your _parabatai_'s ancestor was your boyfriend's _other _lover and also looks just like you –"

"Magnus never loved Will," Izzy rolled her eyes. "Didn't you hear Jace? He was just trying to help Will break his curse. And that's _hardly _the most important thing right now."

Alec ducked his head sheepishly. "Sorry, Jace."

Jace huffed out a breath, "You're fine, I'm not bothered by it." He was too full of anxiety to be actually annoyed. They would probably be inside the Institute, hiding from the heat like anyone else, if it weren't for his inability to stay in the same place for long. Today they'd been to Taki's, the Met, and even had a brief interlude with some mermaids in the East River. Thus far, his tactic had been internalization. He'd only just told his adoptive siblings the whole story behind Tessa's offer for him to meet his father – and now that it was all on the table there was no avoiding it.

He sat up suddenly, enjoying the feel of the slight breeze it caused tousle through the sweat dampened strings of hair on his neck. For a moment, he looked up at the green canopy above him, letting only small, scattered rays of sun through its cover. He thought about what it would be like to simply jump to the highest branch of the tree, to spread his arms like wings and to take off – to leave this place and the impossible decision before him behind, to just _be_…

But he knew that was the worst way to decision the decision he had to make.

"What do you _want _to do?" Isabelle asked, holding out her hands as if it were that simple – as easy as picking right hand or left hand, only one of them holding a prize. "Do you _want _to talk to him?"

Jace was silent.

"Izz, that's not helpful," Alec chastised.

"It _should_ be," she insisted. "People don't do what they want as much as they should. It's a healthier way of living."

"Sure, but asking someone if they want to talk to the dead father they didn't know they had a year ago like it's an easy answer is… oversimplifying it. Just a little."

"Well, then what's _your _grand advice, oh wise and noble eldest brother?"

Jace's mouth quirked up at the corner. Of everything he'd had running through his head in the past few days – the past _year _– this, Alec and Isabelle, had stayed the same. He had Clary to thank for finding himself, but it was Alec and Izzy he had to thank for his sanity.

"I think…" Alec began. "That your whole life is a long time to live wondering, 'what if?'"

Jace made a face. "You know, that isn't half bad advice." He conceded.

"I sure thought so," Alec grinned.

What Jace didn't say was that that was exactly the point. His whole life. What if Stephen – his father – what if he was… a disappointment? A morbidly huge disappointment? Worse than a father that faked his death to get away from you, then lied to you about the girl you love being your sister, turned out to be evil, and then ran a blade through your chest?

Unlikely, but possible.

And worse than that… what if _Jace_ was the disappointment. What if Stephen expected more from his son? What if he was disgusted by Jace's compassion for Valentine? By his choices in friends or in fighting or even in what sort of damn sandwich he wanted for lunch? He had never felt like an adequate son with Valentine, but with time he had begun to understand that he shouldn't have put the determination of his self worth in the hands of a man who wasn't even really his family. But Stephen _was_, and to be a disappointment to a second father, a real father, would be too horrible to imagine.

Then again, screw what anyone thought about him. He didn't care. He didn't even really care for many of Stephen's choices – so why should it matter to him? He'd done more than anyone his own age – and more than most of the people years older than himself – he didn't need to justify his choices or his actions to anyone. Especially to a father who wasn't even there for him.

But Stephen wasn't just anyone. He was Jace's blood – where he had come from. To understand his father was something he'd wanted his whole life, even if it had been the wrong father he'd been trying to understand. And Tessa said Stephen had loved him even before he was born… but that could have changed, now that Jace was grown, and under the influence of the man who had _murdered_ Stephen…

His head spun around and around. This thought process was a vicious, never-ending cycle.

"Jace?"

Jace turned his face up to look at Isabelle. Her dark eyes were uncharacteristically soft, her whole face arranged smoothly, gently. "Jace, we can't tell you what to do," she said. "But… Stephen is your father, and he loved you. And even an hour with someone who loves you unconditionally is hard to say no to forever."

Forever.

Even if it ended in pain…

Jace thought of Tessa. Tessa had made the decision – twice now she had. For her, the chance for something _good _– the chance for love – would always outweigh the possibility of being hurt. Now Jace just had to decide if he believed the same. Was the chance to understand to share in even just one hour with his father worth the possibility of a horrible disappointment, of a horrible loss?

Was the love worth the pain.


	4. Chapter 4

A pile of clothes lay neatly folded on the intricately designed bedspread. Black clothes – gear. Tessa touched the fabric of the clothes lightly with her fingertips, feeling the magic within her blood stir as it sensed the essence of a soul long lost. Pulling her hand back, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Let me know when you're read," Jem had whispered lightly, his breath skimming the back of her neck before he'd quietly left the room and closed the door. But being ready was not something Tessa ever truly thought she would be when it came to the Change. It was draining. Magic did not come without effort, and this brand always left her tired; more so emotionally than physically. She did not use her power often – only in the direst situations. And those occasions were always full of loss and pain.

It was why she had never considered becoming any of the family she had loved. It would simply hurt too much. Will… and Jamie or Lucie or even Owen… would be to hold them as close as one could ever hold, and then to let go of them. It would be to lose them all over again.

And she knew they would not have wanted it. They were at peace, and she had no right to disturb that peace.

She knew this, and knew, too, that even in that peace, they could find her. She had felt Will with her so many times. He was there in the moments that she smiled, in the moments that made her laugh. Even now, when she picked up a copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_, she could feel his presence, and recall his words as if he were beside her, reading their favorite story as they used to. And though she longed to join him…

But now she had Jem, once again. By some miracle he had returned to her after over a hundred years. Somehow, that piece of her heart had been restored.

And when Jem died, as Will had died, as she knew he would, she would be alone again. And the longing for his presence, for a world where Jem lived and they loved unconditionally, would return. And she would once again long for just one moment with him, to disturb the peace he had found; and knowing that she never would. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that there was more to disturbing that peace… one could _join _it…

This would be the first time Tessa had ever used the Change to become someone in her family since she had become Nathaniel, in the last moments of his life. But in this case, she knew she was not disturbing peace, but giving it. She could feel, even with her hand withdrawn, the pull. Whatever piece of Stephen Herondale that still existed within his Shadowhunter gear, he could feel her ability, and was pulsing, pulling, _yearning_ for that old magic to be enacted. Stephen _wanted_ to be pulled from the depths of the beyond and to place his feet upon the earth once again, so that he could, just once, meet the son he'd died before he could ever meet.

Stephen was ready. Now the only thing left was for Tessa to take the soft leather within her hands, and let her body change.

She began to undress.

For anyone else, she would not have be able to do it. Would not have offered to do it. But Jace Herondale, so strong and yet so forlorn, was her family. She'd heard Jem speak of him, heard the stories and rumors, and had even watched him from afar. But it wasn't until meeting him that she felt that tug in her heart so strong. The tug of that unconditional, purest love of family.

Jace was so like Will. And not, all the same. There was a fire in him, a burning passion that radiated from him like a glow – one that she had only ever seen in Herondale men, that she had first seen and fallen in love with in Will. There was Stephen in him, plain as day – in looks and in manner all the same – and even Valentine and the Lightwoods – those who had raised him. But mostly there was a purity about him; the purity of someone good and wanting to do good. And the way he looked at Clary Fairchild…

Jace, her grandson of however many generations, deserved the chance to meet his family. And Tessa wanted to give him as much of a chance as she could.

Placing her dress and undergarments gently on the bed, Tessa reached for the soft tunic before her. The second she touched the material she felt Stephen like a rocking force, so hard that she made a small, surprised sound. "Ooff!" she steadied herself, moving to put the clothes on, even as the force that was Stephen rocked her like the tide, begging to be let in. "You always were impatient," she grumbled under her breath as she slid on the pants.

Finally, boots laced, Tessa turned to face the mirror before the door. "Okay, Stephen," she whispered at her reflection, knowing that in a moment it would no longer be her own. _Stephen, _she thought, inviting him in – and in an instant her mind was merged into that of another, her body suddenly other, and Stephen Herondale stared into the mirror, blue eyes wide and breathing heavily.

"I'm ready."


	5. Chapter 5 Heart of the Mother

**1982**

Céline Montclair lay asleep in her bed in her home at the Paris Institute, dreaming of the bakery down the road and the blue-eyed mundane boy she'd seen the other day. In her dream, the sun was hot, and she could hear the sounds of vendors down the road, selling water to the summer tourists. Smells wafted from the bakery, and the blue-eyed boy smiled at her, and shyly offered her a piece of the strawberry pastry he held in his hand…

The sound of a crash woke Céline from her dream, and she sat upright, dagger already in hand and poised to throw. At eleven years old, she was already an expert knife-thrower, and was getting better every day. But as she let her eyes adjust, she realized there was no immediate danger here. She lowered the dagger steadily, slowing her breathing.

And then she heard it – a sound she'd heard so many nights before, one that made her skin turn cold with goose flesh and haunted her dreams. It was the unmistakable sound of her mother's voice, crying out in pain.

Céline knew what would come next. She had heard these sounds so many times before. Her mother would plead and beg him to stop – but he would only hit her harder, and her screams would grow louder and louder until Céline could hardly stand it. And then the eerie silence would come – one that forbade and was filled with dread.

She didn't understand. Why would _père _do this? Why wouldn't _mère _fight back? She was a Shadowhunter, she knew how…

Céline, thinking only of what her tutors had told her about defending the innocent – their divine mandate from heaven – scooped her dagger back up into her hand, and slowly crept out of her bed and toward the door.

The lights in the Institute were all on, and Céline wondered how far through the house the fight had traveled before it had woken her. She followed the sounds of her father's shouts, slightly muffled through the walls, all the way to the library. For a moment, she stood stark still against the wall, sucking in a breath and listening. _Always ascertain a situation before striking, _she had been told.

"_Chienne stupide!__" _his voice sounded, and she heard the impact of flesh on flesh through the wall. It made her stomach roil. "_Voyez ce que vous avez fait__?" Stupid bitch! Do you see what you have done? _The sound of the impact again, and this time Céline heard her mother grunt in pain.

Gathering all the courage she had, Céline moved toward the door.

She almost screamed when she did – to see the horror she had only heard through the walls of her home. A fire was blazing in the great behind the darkly colored desk held up by kneeling angels. The curtains were drawn but the windows were open and through them came a breeze that moved the curtains, casting dancing shadows across the walls like the pits of hell. Her mother lay, broken, upon the floor before the desk. Her usually beautiful face was puffy, dotted with purple and green and covered in smeared blood. Céline watched as she wiped the blood from her face, and wince as she brushed her nose with her sleeve. If Céline had to guess, she'd say it was broken in two places. Blood was smeared through her blonde hair, and it clung to her face in patches.

She hadn't realized she'd gasped until she watched her father pivot to face her, and her heart nearly stopped. His eyes were dark and burning with fury, his entire face contorted into a hideous mask. He stared at her as if he'd never seen something to disgusting or offensive in his whole life. Céline began to shake.

"_Père__ –" _she began, lip trembling. She couldn't remember why she had wanted to see this. _Why _did she have to leave the safety of her bed?

"Céline, aller au lit!" _Go to bed! _He snarled at her. "Maintenant!" _Now! _

"_Quitter ma mère suele__," _she managed to whisper, her hands now quivering, too. _Leave mommy alone_.

"Que?" he snapped. "Enfante insolent! Vous osez me dire ce qu'il faut faire?!" _Insolent child! You dare tell me what to do? _

And then he noticed the knife in her hand. If it were possible for her to be more frightened than she already was…

He advanced on her, a snarl emitting from his mouth in the most terrifying sound Celine had ever heard. She backed towards the wall, her mind spinning and wondering how, _how _this could be her father, her _p__é__re, _who had loved her and cradled her kissed her cheek before lessons… She realized there were tears on her face as she hit the wall behind her. But it did her little could. "_P__é__re " _But before she could say another word her father had grabbed her by her hair and was pulling her into the middle of the room. "_Pére si'l vous plait__!"_ she cried as he threw her to the ground beside her mother, who began to weep. Her father, towering over them both, wrenched the knife from little Celine's grasp, leaving a long cut along her palm gushing blood. She cried out in pain and shock just as the back of her father's hand collided with the side of her face, and everything went black…


	6. Chapter 6

**1978**

Celine Montclair stood in the lady's room in the Shadowhunter Academy in Alicante, staring into the mirror. There were dark shadows under her eyes from sleepless nights, and she thought she looked thinner. Not in a good way, though. She looked bonier – sickly.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted her sweater to examine her aching rib. She touched it gently, and winced. _Ow_.

She hadn't had much time to pay attention to the festering bone, since she'd ended up moving transcontinental as soon as she'd received it. Her father had beaten her senseless for forgetting to muck the stables in the Institute that day, and he'd gotten horse shit on his new gear.

But Celine had had other things on her mind. This was it. This was the day. And if she'd hesitated or experienced a minute of doubt, that final beating did it. No matter his apologies or promises – or kisses on her bruised cheeks – could change the inevitable. Though she tried, though she'd tried _so hard_, she always did something wrong. She always had a fault, an imperfection; A gaping hole in her being that made her disgusting to her father – worse than a dog. And he would hit her, no matter what it was or what she did to make amends. He would shout and curse, and then he would begin to kick her. And when she fell to the ground he would begin to kick her, because it was easier than pulling her upright to continue with his fists…

So she had applied to the Academy, and it was that morning that she received the letter of her acceptance, bidding her to come to Idris at her earliest convenience. When her father thought she was still lying unconscious in the stables, she ran out to the city. She didn't bother taking the bag she had packed – she couldn't risk him seeing her inside the house. If he believed she was knocked out, it would give her more time before he noticed her missing…

Instead she grabbed hold of the mundane money she had stored in her horse's saddle, and had fled to the streets. The sun had already begun to set, and so the tourists were crowding the streets in the evening Paris light, and she was able to easily sneak through the throng unnoticed. She could pick up some clothes on her way to meet Pierre Lis, she thought. The Warlock had agreed to help her – he had seen the bruises on her in their first encounter and had guessed at her problem. She had interrogated him at sword point, but he had still agreed to free her from her prison.

It was dusk by the time Celine arrived at the meeting point, with nothing but the dirty, muddy things she wore and the two changes of clothes she'd purchased in a small shop, some money in her pocket, and her stele. With very few words Celine thanked the High Warlock of Paris before he produced a Portal out of thin air. He wished her good luck, and she'd stepped through, hoping to leave him and her life there forever.

Her rib throbbed now at the thought of her father, now realizing his daughter had gone. He would be furious, and would likely drink and begin to curse and break things until he passed out, his fists still twitching in his sleep.

Celine let her sweater fall and took a steadying breath. She could reset the rib herself back at the apartment she was allowed temporary residence, and then she would use an iratze. All she had to do was make it through one more hour of lessons, and then she could go back to the apartment, and – _stop pretending you're okay_.

"You can do this." She said into the mirror, pointing her index finger at the reflection. "Hold it together, Celine." She stared a moment longer, glaring at herself and ridding herself of the weakness she felt. With a final, sharp nod at herself, she turned and marched toward the door.

… And collided into a passing figure in the hall.

Celine felt the pain in her ribs explode. She swore in French at the same time that she groaned, "Aaahh!" Looking down at herself, she could tell that no serious damage had been done, though she was seeing spots in her vision. "Sorry – sorry! I am so sorry-" she began to stammer

"Oh – no, I apologize, miss. My sincerest apologies – did I hurt you?"

Celine looked up. It was a boy – well, more of a man, really. He loomed over her, his massive build overshadowing her, and the sight was so familiar to her that she flinched. The man immediately stepped back, but kept his arms outstretched as if he were holding her steady.

"I – no, no you didn't, you just, uh –"

Now that her eyes had cleared and he was standing further back, she could see that he was a very good-looking man – early twenties if she had to guess. He had silver-blonde hair and dark, shadowed eyes. They contrasted starkly against the angles of his face. Despite the darkness of his eyes, they were warm and filled with concern.

"You surprised me, is all," she mumbled.

"Is that Parisian French, I hear?" he asked now, smiling at her with interest. Celine ducked her chin closer to her throat, and took another step back. "You have a good ear – uh –"

His smile broadened. "Valentine," he said. "Valentine Morgenstern." There was genuine pride in his voice, and Celine wistfully wondered what it would be like to be proud of the family you came from. "And you are?"

"Celine Montclair," she answered shyly.

"Celine," he mused. "I don't think I've seen you in Alicante before. Is this your first time in the Glass City?"

Celine nodded. "Oui, I arrived just last night,"

"Welcome, then," Valentine spread his arms as if to behold the wonders of Idris. "Do you have family here?"

"No, I'm staying in an apartment in the city until I find a place of my own,"

"You're a student here, then?" he asked.

For the life of her, Celine couldn't imagine why he'd said more than "watch where you're going" to her in the first moment that they met. It was disconcerting. Again she nodded.

"I'm sure you'll be a grand addition. If you require any extra practice, let me know. My wife and I live not far outside the city, and visit often."

"Pardonnez-moi," she whispered, "You don't look quite old enough…"

"To be married?" he chuckled. "If you ask my parents, I'm not. My wife and I fell in love at a young age. I am only twenty-one. But, when you know, you know, no?"

Celine felt herself laugh, and was surprised at herself. She couldn't remember the last time she had laughed. It hurt her ribs.

"Valentine!"

Celine turned at the sound of a young woman calling her companion's name. At the end of the hall was a girl with fiery hair and a face that radiated confidence, and beauty. She turned back to look at Valentine.

"Love, I'd like you to meet someone," he called back, and waved her over.

"Oh – no, I really –" Celine protested, knowing that she should really be returning to lessons… she'd been gone too long already. But the woman was already walking forward, and came to a stop in front of Celine, by Valentine's side.

"Jocelyn, darling, this is Celine Montclair. She just arrived from Paris."

Jocelyn held out her hand. "Celine," she smiled. "Pleased to meet you," she said.

"The pleasure is mine," Celine answered quietly. The girl was so beautiful. She looked strong, and full of life.

"Welcome to Alicante," she said sweetly, before she turned to her husband again. "Valentine, we really should go – Luke is waiting outside," she said.

"Right you are," he said, and kissed her forehead. "Celine," he said, nodding to her politely. "I'm sure our paths will cross again. And if you need anything –"

"I should know where to ask," she smiled in return.


	7. Chapter 7

Celine inched her way into the library in the Fairchild manor, hands wringing before her. The large oak-wood doors were open and light poured out from the inside. It looked as if it glowed in the evening light, with the final light of dusk setting over the Idris skyline. The entryway was familiar from the few times Celine had stopped by in the past month or so; tapestries hung from the walls with the Fairchild sigil; Fearie wings in hues of kaleidoscope colors. Witchlight hung from the walls, illuminating the stone archway and that led toward the East and West wings of the house. Celine followed the sounds of voices and light, elegant music, her feet padding softly upon the Turkish carpets that covered the floors.

Upon reaching the source of the noise, Celine walked through the glass library doors to find a room full of people – Circle members –making small talk amongst the books before the meeting began. There were settings of food around the room at intervals – cheeses and fine meats. Wine goblets were a-plenty, and an array of bottles with names in Italian and French lay on a tray upon the top of a grand piano by a massive window, which let in the few flickering beams of sunlight.

It was Celine's first time, but she recognized a good number of faces. Jeremy Pontmercy – he was in her drills team at the Academy and was a year younger. She recognized Hodge Starkweather in the corner, nose in a book. Jocelyn was there, laughing and smiling with Lucian Greymark. Every now and then someone would come up and congratulate her on the baby she was expecting, and she would graciously thank them, beaming with her prenatal glow.

"Celine!"

Celine turned at the sound of her name, and smiled as she recognized Valentine striding toward her. She could hardly believe his infallible kindness to her since they'd met. He'd offered her his small house in town so that she wouldn't have to accept charity from the Clave – and after much insistence on his part, she'd accepted. He'd even taken to stopping by to invite her to dinner, making sure she was settled and comfortable. And whenever she even hinted at any slight difficulty, he was eager to lend a hand in her studies. She felt she had learned more with him in a month in terms of technique than she had from years at the Paris Institute.

"If I'd had a sister," he'd told her one afternoon while helping her practice landing from long distance jumps, "I imagine she'd be something like you."

And now, as he strode toward her, putting an arm around her slowly and gently enough that she did not flinch, Celine felt as if she'd found the family she had been meant to have all along.

"Celine, have you met my dear friend Michael?" She shook her head as Valentine waved over a man in an elegantly tailored pin-striped suit. The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners of his dark brown eyes, and offered his hand. "Celine, this is Michael Wayland. Michael, this is Celine Montclair."

Celine took Michael's hand as they exchanged pleasantries. He was very sweet; married, his wife at home on bed rest, expecting their first child. He even introduced her to his parabatai, Robert, and his wife Maryse. All around her people greeted her with smiles and welcoming words.

It wasn't quite what she'd expected. She had almost imagined people in dark cloaks circled around a sacrificial altar in a room full of burning torches. She certainly hadn't imagined something the likes of cocktail hour at a refined high-society function.

And, admittedly, she'd hesitated when Valentine had first told her about the Circle. "Isn't that just a bit… sacrilegious?" she asked. She vividly remembered the horribly offended look on his face, and the guilt she'd felt at questioning the nature of his intentions when he had been nothing but kind and gracious to her since the moment they'd met.

"No, no – Of course not! Dearest Celine, this is about righting the wrongs, exposing the corrupt… The aim – our only intention – is to ensure that the Nephilim are better than to be tainted by inexcusable and unjust behavior," he'd paused before adding, "Such as that which you endured for far too long."

When the sun had finally set, Valentine came to stand before the crowd of Nephilim, calling them to attention. Silence fell around the room in an instant, and Celine took a moment to admire her friend. He was as charismatic as he was kind – and he commanded attention with none but his presence.

"My friends," he began. "Thank you for coming this evening. You _all _give me hope, give me proof, that the Nephilim are not as the Clave represents us. We are willing and capable of reform; of bringing Shadowhunters into the light of the angel once more."

There was an appreciative applause, and Celine watched as Jocelyn beamed at her husband, an unconscious hand placed gently upon her womb. _That _was the family that Celine had always dreamed of; A father worthy of praise, a mother with a will to love and to protect. That life had never been hers, and it was but a dream that it one day might be. A husband, loving and devoted. And a child… golden haired as the sun, and never in their life doubting the love of their parents. Valentine and Jocelyn would give that to their child. Their love for him or her would be as plain as their love for each other. _Oh, _to find that kind of love…

"Stephen," Valentine spoke, and Celine concentrated once more on the here and now. A man with fair hair stepped forward from his place among the crowd, releasing the hand of a woman with lovely chestnut hair. "Have you spoken to our mutual friend on the Council?" Valentine asked.

"Yes, sir," Stephen replied. "He sends his regards, as well as confirmation of his full support."

Valentine's face lit visibly, but he maintained his composure. "That is wonderful news. Thank you, my friend." Stephen nodded, a slight smile on his face, and returned to his place among the crowd. "Mr. Herondale here brings news that we now have eyes and ears on the Council. With him as a source, it will be far easier to gather intelligence that will aid in the construction of reform negotiation,"

There was another general sound of approval before Valentine turned to face another. "Maryse, where are we with the wolf pack in Chicago?"

"Lakewind sends good news," Maryse said curtly, her blue eyes piercing. Celine didn't like to admit it but she found the woman with raven-colored hair intimidating… "That pack leader was restrained this past week. They have contained the pack and are determining the guilt of each of the members,"

"Excellent," Valentine clapped his hands together. His good mood was infectious. It was as if he radiated positivity. "And my dear friend Celine here has provided excellent insights into the Parisian vampire clan as well. They have had their run of the city for far too long – but as a united front the Circle will bring them to justice."

Celine smiled shyly, blushing furiously. But on the inside she beamed. It was truly the first time in her life she had ever felt needed – by anyone. It was the first time she ever felt like a contribution rather than a hindrance. It made her heart ache to know that _this _was how kind people could be, when her whole life she had only ever seen what 'kindness' her father had shown her, what 'love' her mother had displayed with her inaction.

"See how – how essential you are?" he'd said to her when she'd spoken to him of the _Le Poison Morte _vampire clan the week before. "Without you we could never have imagined making such positive changes. You are invaluable."

Slowly, all the updates on the Circle and the Clave's movement were shared. Plans were formed for cohesive action; more patrolling and containment of high risk areas, more negation construction and debate…

What scared Celine the most was the ever-increasing possibility of physical conflict with the Clave. If they were too stubborn – if they didn't listen – the Circle would be required to use force. And a war amongst Shadowhunters… it was unimaginable. But Celine knew in her heart that things needed to change. The Law was hard, she knew, but perhaps not upon the right people.

"You look consternated," a voice suddenly pulled Celine from her reverie. She jumped slightly – and cursed herself for doing so. She had gotten so much better at containing her little quips that were unbecoming of a Shadowhunter. She turned, and was surprised to face Stephen Herondale.

"I'm sorry?" she asked, taking a step back. He was rather close, and seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

"Consternated," he repeated, his face drawn and serious, but she thought she could see a gleam of mischief in his eyes. "You seem rather young to be plagued by issues leaving you consternated."

She wondered if he was the sort of immature man to be amused by the similarities between the words "consternated" and "constipated."

"All Shadowhunters face troubles beyond their years," she said in return.

He seemed to slow in that moment, to consider her. His eyes took more of the sight of her in, and looked calculating. "And how many years are you?" he asked.

Celine grimaced. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that it is impolite to ask a woman's age?"

"I learned many things from my mother," Stephen said, crossing his arms and leaning easily against the piano beside him. "How many of those lessons I retained is another matter entirely," he quipped. After a moment of her staring, he returned to being serious. "I apologize if I have offended you,"

Celine stared at him through narrow eyes. Celine didn't know much about boys – or men, for that matter – since her father had kept her close at hand all her life, and she'd never had many friends growing up. But what she did know came from gossip amongst the citizens of Paris, from the Downworlders inhabiting clubs; Fearies laughing their musical laughs over a violet colored drink, vampires seething about the wrongs their lovers had done them while sucking blood through straws in drinks with little umbrellas… And what she had gathered from these whispered conversations was that an man outwardly displaying a joking, blasé façade, was a man with deep, deep troubles. Deep troubles, and sometimes a good heart. As she looked at him, she decided that it was better to give him the benefit of the doubt. His apology seemed to be genuine.

"Seventeen," she said.

Stephen looked surprised, his eyes widening fractionally.

"What?" she snapped. "Do you think me a child? I'll have you know –"

"We are all children here," he said morosely. "Or, we should be. But… you are right. As a general rule, Shadowhunters are more than their years." As he spoke, his eyes grew sad. And for a brief second, Celine wondered what troubles haunted those icy blue orbs.

"Now _you _look consternated."

At that, Stephen laughed. "I imagine I did." He held out a hand. "Stephen Herondale," he said.

She shook his hand briefly. "Celine Montclair,"

"Good to meet you Celine. Valentine has given you high praise. You seem an impressive woman for seventeen."

Celine blushed. "Valentine is more kind than I deserve." She whispered. Then, because she could not help but share her worries with another, "Do you think negotiations with the Clave will work?" she asked.

His expression darkened, a shadow falling over his face. "The Clave is content to continue on as it has for hundreds of years – they won't be will to even consider negotiations unless…" Celine waited, and he sighed. "Unless we can gather enough support that they _have _to. And that would have to be the majority of the Nephilim – and most of them are afraid of change." He shrugged. "There's no certainty, but one can hope."

"Hope," Celine echoed. She looked out the window at the shadow-covered hills, imagining what path this road could lead her. If war broke out between the Shadowhunters, it would be the likes of which the world had never seen. Downworlders would run rogue, unchecked while the peace-keepers of this world fought amongst themselves. Would there be time to scourge the earth of demons? Or would they be too busy killing each other? And how could they even do _that_? They all knew one another, had grown up together. Not one person had a neighbor or cousin or _parabatai _who had not at some point in the past shared an ancestor. The Shadowhunters shared their history with each other, intertwined through the ages.

And yet here they were, a house divided upon itself. And what would be left in the end? _We are but dust and shadows_…

"I should be leaving," she said suddenly, pulling her eyes back into the room and herself back into the present. The future was too daunting to consider too deeply. "I still have classes tomorrow,"

"Well it was a pleasure to meet you, Celine. Perhaps I'll see you again in the future."

"Perhaps," echoed Celine, still feeling far away – far in the future, never to know that the future she was imagining was quite centered upon the man she was leaving behind her.


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the optimism of that gathering of the Circle, things in the next months deteriorated suddenly and quickly. With the start of Jocelyn's second trimester she became ill – the pregnancy taking a major toll on her energy and ability to contribute. Valentine was in a state over it; he had already faced major setbacks with the wolf pack in Chicago – as well as with the Clave – and for his wife to struggle in her pregnancy… well, Celine wasn't surprised by the tension he carried in his shoulders.

And, if that were not enough, during the summer months, tragedy struck. Lucian was bitten by a wolf during a patrol – and come the full moon, was so horrified by what he had become that he had driven a blade through his own heart. With the loss of his _parabatai, _Valentine was torn apart. Jocelyn, too, worsened, and was pushed to take up bed rest full time. She was so weak that she could not even attend the Circle gathering to honor Lucian's memory.

The loss was felt by all – but the troubles only grew. Celine was under pressure by the Academy, who had taken note of her relationship with Valentine. They pushed her to reveal his misdeeds so that they might bring him to justice, to put an end to what could only lead to anarchy. But Celine, loyal to Valentine and to bringing the Clave to see their misdeeds as she was, remained silent. She only insisted that he would never be involved with such treason, and that his loyalty was only ever to the Nephilim.

And she knew she was not the only one under pressure. Lillian Lakewind, a girl from the Academy, was being questioned, too – on a near daily basis. Although not by the Clave – by her own family. Though her parents had no notions of their youngest being part of the Circle, they knew that their son Elijah, who ran the Chicago Institute, was an avid supporter.

"They're always asking me to talk to him – to tell them what he's been up to. It's like they want me to spy on their own son so that they can turn him in!" Lillian shook her head in frustration as she and Celine walked. They were on patrol in Brocelind, just on the edge of the forest, where demon activity had been a-plenty as of late. It had been a long night – even for a Shadowhunter – and Celine was starting to feel the effects of sleepless nights.

"I can't imagine how hard that would be," she said sympathetically, drawing her steele from her pocket. "Here – can you do an energy rune? I'm feeling a little," she waved her hand through the air as if that were an appropriate explanation for her dire need for a nap.

"Sure," Lillian said. "And, you know, it's just so hard right now," she said sadly. "My parents don't understand why Elijah and I are doing the things we do, and it's not as if they even try to understand. They think I'm being distant because of the Andrew thing, but," and she took a long, sorrowful breath, "Okay – well that's part of it,"

Celine grimaced as Lillian pressed the steele to her skin and began to draw. Her friend certainly had been having a rough go of it. Her lifetime crush, Andrew Blackthorn, had recently revealed that he had married a Faerie girl, and they were expecting a child. Lillian had run to Celine's door, tears streaking down her face, the moment she had heard. Celine had acted on instinct, and pulled her friend into her arms.

"It's just that – Oh, I don't know," Lillian sighed again as she pulled the steele away. "I just had thought that… maybe… he'd sort of known,"

"Still, if he loves her," Celine reasoned. "Lillian, you are young and beautiful and I have no doubt that you will find a man who is ten times the man Andrew Blackthorn is."

"You think so?"

Celine nodded. "Of course."

The two friends smiled warmly at each other, and Celine was once again reminded of her luck in coming to Idris – of how much she owed Valentine and his generosity.

And in that moment Celine felt her skin begin to prickle. Without a moment's hesitation her hand flew to her seraph blade, drawing it just in time for the spider-legged demon with teeth bigger than it's head to launch itself at her.

Lillian's fist flew through the air and knocked the demon sideways. Celine held her blade ready, watching Lillian's back as the girl flew at the demon, gracefully twisting and slashing and hacking away limbs – only for three more demons to emerge from the darkness, their many legs carrying them at high speeds. They skittered toward the Shadowhunters, and Celine grit her teeth before launching herself toward the creatures.

Ugh. Too many legs, too large teeth, and one damn stinger the likes of which a scorpion would envy. If being poisonous wasn't enough, it had a wicked strength, which Celine felt acutely as it struck her face and blew her to the side so hard and fast she hardly had time to brace herself before she hit the trunk of a tree with a sickening thud. With eyes seeing spots, she scrambled to her knees as the demon came at her, rearing up over her…

Until she whispered _Nakir_ quicker than lightening, and her blade took the back-most legs out from under the creature. Ichor seeped out and the demon screeched so loud Celine felt her bones rattle. But it had several more legs, and it was not done yet. The demon leapt – no, _jumped _– at Celine, landing atop of her. Its legs pinned her forearms to the ground, teeth unleashed.

Celine kicked out with all her strength- managing to throw it off its balance… Only for it to land with all of its weight on half of her body, at which point she realized that the sharp hairs that covered the demon's body was covered in venom. Her skin began to burn.

With her free hand, Celine grappled and reached for her blade. It felt like she might unhinge her shoulder, but when the tips of her fingers touched the blade she could not stop. She couldn't stop the groan of pain from emitting from her throat, but it was just the push she needed. She clutched on to _Nakir_ and threw all of her strength into thrusting the blade into the demon's side.

Heaving, Celine dragged herself to an upright position as the demon writhed and began to vanish into smoke, returning to its own dimension.

"Agghhh," she groaned at the pain in her limbs. "Lillian," she called. "I may need one of your expert _iratzes…_"

The only response was silence.

"Lillian?"

Silence again.

They must have been separated during the fight – and either Lillian was out there fighting for her life or she'd managed to kill the thing and was simply a little turned around. With an effort, Celine tried to head in the general direction she'd last seen her friend – and stumbled. Her injuries were more severe than she'd initially thought. And here in the forest she was a sitting duck for more of those things to munch on and use her bones as toothpicks. _Well, _she thought, _no use just sitting here like an entrée… _

Skin burning, Celine began to climb. Her left arm was starting to go numb, so she used the strength of her right arm to pull her weight up, and pushing with her feet against the trunk of the tree. She grit her teeth to prevent her grunts from drawing attention to herself. No need to bring any more raveners down on her while she was such an easy target. When she felt she had reached a good height (when she thought her arm might fall off if she continued to use it to heave herself up the tree) she settled herself into a niche upon a thick branch. It was covered in thick greenery, still. The coming autumn hadn't quite touched its leaves yet.

Making herself as comfortable as she could, she readied herself for the worst part; Assessing the damage. There was pain in her leg where some ichor was starting to seethe through the fabric of her gear, and she had some nasty cuts along the side of her face and neck that she could feel dripping blood. She quickly began to wipe it away before it got in her eyes. Carefully, she began to tear away the pieces of her gear that had been contaminated by ichor. The skin beneath the fabric on her arm was torn and red, and in patches looked rather like scorch marks. Not to mention the smell; Demon smell, like rotting food and formaldehyde. She muttered something unintelligible before tearing off a clean piece of her pants and moving to wipe away the ichor.

Disgusting.

_Why _had she decided to wear brand new gear on a patrol like this? There had been no hope for its survival. Then again, any gear she owned had a seventy-five percent chance of being torn in at least three different places.

Suddenly, a noise drew Celine's attention. She froze, listening. Rustling from below… movement? There was definitely something down there, moving slowly. _Crunch_. Something heavy. It could be a wild animal, maybe. More likely not, though… Using whatever power was left in her hearing rune, Celine strained her ears.

She could hear breathing, shallow and soft. That ruled out a vampire… Two feet? – Yes, definitely two – maybe one of the wolf pack? Though she was sure she hadn't wandered that far into the forest yet… She leaned carefully over the side of the branch to get a better look…

"Stephen?" she piped in honest surprise. Sure enough, Stephen Herondale was standing just below the canopy of the tree, wearing gear and a bow and arrow in hand, poised for use.

The blue-eyed boy in question jumped a little at the sound of his name, and spun to find the source. Looking up, his eyes widened in surprise. "Celine?" he emitted incredulously. "What are you doing up in a bloody tree?"

"Aptly put," she called down. "Since I'm bleeding.

Understanding registered across his face. "You're hurt?" And without waiting for further information, he sheathed his arrow, tossing his bow around him unceremoniously, and began to climb with haste.

"You don't have to – oh, never mind," she groaned, and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. He was climbing much faster than she had, and she had to remind herself that she had been injured and he wasn't.

As he neared the top, Celine could suddenly see with distinction that which he had been too far for her to perceive before. There were horrible dark shadows under his eyes, and his skin was pulled tight over his cheekbones. He looked _sick _– like he hadn't eaten or slept in days. Weeks, maybe. When he reached her branch she could see, too, that even his posture was affected. His shoulders were hunched and he looked he was using all his energy to even stay partially upright.

"What the hell happened to _you_?" Celine demanded in astonishment as Stephen settled into the branch.

"What?" He looked taken aback.

"I'm covered in burning sores and ichor and I'm fairly certain that if we walked into a mundane hospital right now, they'd take _you _for critical care."

Understanding spread across Stephen's face, and he straightened. "Oh, this?" he gestured to himself. "_Eau de Divorce_. Divorce _chic_, if you will."

Celine couldn't hide her surprise. "You got a divorce?"

Stephen nodded, his eyes dark. "Indeed, I did."

Though she wanted badly to ask why, Celine held her tongue. It wasn't her business, and she felt badly about essentially telling him he looked like a mess when he was clearly having a rough go of it already. So, "I am sorry to hear that," was all she said.

"That's kind of you to say," he answered, not meeting her eyes. He moved forward and took the strip of gear from her hand. "Here, let me." From a pocket in his pants he pulled a clean cloth and a small glass vial labeled "antiseptic." He popped the bottle open and held the cloth against the opening. He tilted it, and let the cloth soak in the clear liquid. Gently, he took her hand and pulled her arm to him before slowly dabbing away the ichor, and wiping her arm clean.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked as she watched him. He kept his eyes down as he replied, "Valentine sent me to relieve the watch. But no one was at the meeting point, so I went back and got a few others to come search with me. After what happened to Lucian…" Stephen's voice broke a little on the last word.

"Oh – I'm so sorry," Celine stammered. "He was your brother in-law, wasn't he?" He only nodded.

"What about you?" he asked suddenly, looking up. "What are you doing here?"

"Patrolling with Lillian – " she began, but he shook his head, cutting her off.

"I meant in Idris – at the Academy. Most Shadowhunters start there at twelve. You're seventeen – too old for the usual circumstances. But neither are you an adult – and you came to Idris alone, without parents. If you were an orphan, you'd be at an Institute, but you're not. From what I gather, your parents are still in France, so… what are you doing here?"

Celine gaped at him as he retracted his steele and began to draw an _iratze _on her arm. He had noticed a lot about her, despite the very few occasions their paths had crossed, and only one on which they had spoken. And if _he _had noticed… She had told Valentine – but he knew her well. He was her friend. He understood her better than anyone she'd ever known. But for others to know… to know her weakness… it was so shameful.

"I – I… well," she looked down and took her arm from his grasp as he finished the _iratze_. "My parents and I… that is to say, my father and I… we didn't… get along." She allowed.

"I know the feeling," he grumbled. "My parents and I don't quite get along either. They don't understand anything about the Circle, or why I joined. They _love _the Clave, and the Law. They have a hard time accepting that their golden boy wouldn't stay under their thumb forever."

"They were overbearing?" Celine guessed. Stephen shrugged.

"They absolutely smothered me growing up. My mother – " he rolled his eyes. "Thought I was perfect. They expected perfection, and saw it. I know they love me, don't get me wrong, I just… wish they had let me make mistakes growing up. They love a perfection that I know doesn't exist." He looked at her then. "Were your parents the same?"

Celine wanted to slap him. He was upset because his parents loved him _too _much. Because they thought he was the perfect son. And now – what? He joined the Circle as an act of rebellion against his parents? To piss them off? When here she was, running away from abuse and trying to make her own father see how loveless and cruel had had only ever been – and to hold him accountable to the Clave.

"Sure," she hissed. "If your parents beat you to oblivion when you didn't fall into their idea of _perfection_, then, yeah, you could say my father smothered me."

Stephen gaped. "They – _what_?"

"You heard me," she repeated, shaking all over. "And I don't expect you to understand – but don't you _dare _ever complain that your parents thought _too_ highly of you, that they loved you _too_ much. Because for some people, the only love they receive is the stinging kiss of the back of a hand against the side of their face or the embrace of his hands around my throat. _That_ is the love and affection I grew up with, Stephen Herondale. So if you want to complain about your _poor-little-rich-boy _life, then find someone else.

"Celine… I – " Stephen was at a loss for words, and bent below her cold stare.

"_That _is why I am in Idris. That is why I believe in Valentine. Because I spent my life as my father's punching bag. Others knew, and said nothing. Did nothing. I said nothing, for fear of not being believed, or of being ignored. I want to be proud of the Clave and Counsel I serve, and I want to bring those who hurt innocents to justice."

It felt like fire in her veins, finally _saying _it. And to render someone speechless… it made her feel powerful. She was in control; one of the few times in her life she ever had been.

"Tell me," Stephen whispered after a moment.

"What?" she snapped.

"Tell me…" he implored, "What he did to you,"

Celine gasped. _What?_ He wanted to _know_? Wanted her to relive her nightmares? It was personal! Not something a young lady ought to share with a man she hardly knew. The things that happened to her, they were the worst parts of her. Her life was categorized into two – now three – parts. Before, and after. Before she'd heard her mother cry out in the middle of the night, she'd been happy. She'd thought her parents loved her. Smiles and hugs and kisses were always forthcoming, and she'd never doubted their or her own happiness. After, everything changed. What once was beautiful and marked by laughter and happiness became dark. It was a shadow. The never-ending night of her life. Every morning she had woken in fear, and every moment throughout the day she'd spent concentrating on _not _doing the things that would set her father off. And yet, she always did. There had been no such thing as a happy moment in her life for six full years. And Stephen wanted her to divulge _that?_

And yet, even as she rejected the idea… she had never told anyone. Pierre and Valentine knew she had been abused, but knew none of the details. Neither knew when or how it had started, how often it had been, of what _kind _it had been… It had been her secret, her burden to carry. Because she was ashamed.

But… to carry it as a secret would to be admit it was shameful. _It is_, a voice in the back of her mind insisted. _Yes, _said another, smaller voice. _But maybe not shameful of you… _

"My father," she began slowly, and Stephen looked into her eyes steadily. "Used to beat my mother. I heard her screaming sometimes, at night. For a long time I was too afraid to leave my bed… to find out what was happening. But in the morning I would see the bruises, the way she flinched at people's proximity. And then… one night… I heard her again. Louder than ever before, and it just… _kept going_." _Keep going, _the small voice said. _Let it go_. "I took my dagger that I kept beneath my pillow, and I went downstairs.

Celine looked at Stephen, trying to measure his reaction, but his face was smooth, his eyes steady.

"I saw him standing over her," she continued. "He heard me. He turned and saw me, holding the dagger." In her mind's see she could see him, his face contorted in rage as he advanced on her; feel the pull of his hands in her hair, the burning pain in her face and jaw when she'd woken the next morning, still on the floor… "I was eleven."

"Oh – _God_," Stephen made a choked sound, and looked for a moment as if he might reach for her, then thought better of it. He kept his hand close to his side, clenched tightly.

"It happened more and more after that. First it only happened every couple of weeks… if I said something he didn't like, or didn't do well in lessons… But soon it was _every day_. My mother never stopped him – never tried. I think she'd given up. She pretended it never happened. I tried talking to her about it, once…" Celine felt the pressure behind her eyes and the sting in her nose, but sucked in a breath to control it. Gritting her teeth, she went on. "She slapped me, and told me never to repeat such things again. To anyone.

"And then, when I was almost sixteen…" she gulped, swallowing bile. "I woke up one morning, and she was gone. I asked my father where… where she was. He told me she was killed by a rogue Downworlder. But I knew the truth. I'd heard her screaming the night before, until it just _stopped_. I thought she'd passed out – he always like choking me when I screamed too loudly – but…" She was shaking, she knew, and her eyes persisted in their stinging as she tried not to cry. "I knew then I needed to leave, before he killed me, too. So I applied to the Academy"

Celine glanced down at her hands, and clutched them together, hoping to stop the trembling. _Let it go; Let go the notion it is your weakness. Embrace it as your strength. _"After she died it got worse. It…" Celine took a ragged breath. "He… tried to do things…" _Oh, sweet, sweet Celine… you know how pere loves you… don't you love me, too? _She heard Stephen's breath catch, but drove on. "That was the first time I tried to fight back in years. And I remember him _screaming _at me… until it was black."

_Don't ever fight me again, sweet Celine. Pere loves you. Next time you will show me how you love me, too. _

_Finish it, _the voice in her mind shouted at her. Her heart pounded and she bit her lip, hard, feeling the salty taste of blood flood her mouth.

"I left the next morning, and didn't look back." She let out in a rush. "I left. I _left_." She breathed.

_There, _the voice told her, sending soothing notes all through her skin. She sucked in ragged breaths, calming herself. _I will _not_ cry. _

For a few moments, everything was silent. Celine didn't look up, for fear of seeing what she had always imagined she would if she revealed the truth. Disgust, revulsion…

"I am…" Stephen began suddenly, and when she looked up their eyes met. "I cannot begin to express my horror. That you went through that. That you had to go through that – and that I… so callously…"

"Acted like a petulant, spoiled child?" she blurted.

"_Yes_," he nodded furiously, to her great surprise. "I am ashamed."

"As you should be," she glowered, her tone none to gracious.

Stephen sunk, shoulders bent with the weight of whatever deep sadness was plaguing him now. They sat there in silence, and Celine was disinclined to interrupt it. She leaned back against the trunk of the tree, and closed her eyes. The pain she had felt had vanished and was replaced by the familiar ache of her muscles. The one thing that wasn't familiar, however, was the feeling of… consolidation. She had finally spoken the words – finally shared the secret she had sworn never to tell since the day her mother had hit her across the face. And it felt _good_. Her heart felt lighter – not healed from the years of damage she had been inflicted, but as if she might not carry that damage with her every day of her life. It was like she'd been walking around with every injury – mental, emotional, physical – within a giant bag that she'd carried on her shoulders and never set down. Bringing her father to justice would be the most restorative thing she could do, she knew. But sharing her burden, too, was a form of healing that she hadn't anticipated it could be.

She breathed softly, letting the stiffness in her muscles slowly release. The energy rune she'd worn earlier was fading fast, and she could feel the crash coming. A short nap would restore her, she thought. Maybe if she stayed _very _still, she could sleep a moment or two without falling –

"Whoah there," Stephen interrupted, and Celine felt herself collide with what felt distinctly like an arm.

_Ooof_

Looking up, Celine realized she'd already started to tilt to the side, and Stephen had placed his arm securely against the trunk of the tree, acting as a safety bar and catching her. Okay, maybe she was already crashing…

"Oh… thanks," she mumbled, and yaned.

Surprisingly, Stephen chuckled.

"What?" she frowned.

He shrugged, smiling. "Oh, nothing. Just, for most people, nearly falling from great heights would wake them up. It rather seems to be putting you to sleep."

It was Celine's turn to shrug. "I've had worse injuries than the likes a tree could give me."

Stephen's smile faded immediately. "I'm sorry."

She bristled and glowered at him. "I don't want your pity, Stephen."

"Pity?" he croaked, and Celine looked over at him. "I don't pity you at all. I – admire you." She narrowed her eyes. "I am serious," he insisted. "You have endured more than your fair share of hardships – for want of a better word. And yet here you are," he gestured to her. "Brave and strong and beautiful and fighting for what you believe in."

Celine paused, considering. Brave and strong and… "You think I'm beautiful?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. It was the first time anyone had called her beautiful. Ever.

"Yes," Stephen verified plainly.

"Oh," was all she could manage in response.

They sat there in silence for some time, simply listening to the forest around them, to the sounds of their breathing. Squirrels ran up through the branches of the trees, and birds began to call as the blackness became gray, and the morning mist began to rise. It was peaceful here, in this tree. A world of its own, high above the realm of pain and suffering Celine had endured.

"Thank you," she said then.

Stephen glanced at her. "What for?"

"For listening to me."

Stephen smiled, a genuine smile, and it changed his face, making him look younger and less defeated.

"And I'm sorry… for calling you a child."

He chuckled. "Don't be. You were right. I am a child. Petulant and spoiled, too." Then he sighed. "I had so much and I just… let it get away from me."

"Your parents?"

"My wife," he said, and his voice was sad. "My ex wife," he amended.

Celine wasn't sure what to say. She stared at him, but he kept his gaze planted firmly on the ground. Of the few times she'd seen them together, she'd always thought Stephen and his wife were happy. And suddenly she recalled the words of Tolstoy she had read only a few years before… "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

"Tell me," she said.

Stephen looked up, recognizing his own words to her. "You want to hear my poor-little-rich-boy story?"

She nodded.

Stephen heaved a sigh. "Alright." He paused, seeming to weigh the words before he spoke them. "You knew Lucian," he said after a moment. "Valentine's _parabatai_, second in command. He and Jocelyn were best friends growing up, too. And… you know what happened to him."

"He killed himself," Celine whispered. Suicide amongst Nephilim was as shameful as anything could be. It was cowardice. Even in her worst moments living in the Institute in Paris Celine had never been able to even consider suicide.

"In front of Valentine," Stephen nodded. "And Amatis – she practically raised Lucian. Their father died when they were young and their mother joined the Iron Sisters. They were so close – she loved him so much – she was heartbroken. She said Valentine should have stopped him, should have protected him in the first place. She was just so _angry_…

"And then Valentine asked me to be his second. And I said yes. Of course I said yes – I believe in him and what he's trying to do. But Amatis was conflicted. She blamed Valentine for what happened to her brother and wasn't… well, she wasn't thrilled with my decision. I spoke to him about it. I spent so much time thinking about it… We started to fight. A lot.." He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I trust Valentine, and I couldn't tell her she was wrong to be angry or hurt. She'd just lost her only family. None of it was her fault! It was _mine_, and I knew that. _I_ wanted to be Valentine's second. _I_ wanted to be in the Circle. _I_ wanted children – "

He stopped abruptly, his eyes casting downward as if in shame of admitting this one, simple fact. "And none of that was her fault. She deserved to mourn Lucian in whatever way she could. She deserved to find someone who wouldn't always be heartbroken that she couldn't – that we couldn't –"

"Couldn't conceive," Celine finished in a hushed voice, and in his she heard all the heartbreak in the world. Children had never been part of the life she'd imagined for herself as she'd grown up, but she imagined that if she'd had a stable, loving family like Stephen – however overbearing they might be – a child would have starred prominently in her dreams. Even now, just as she'd begun to imagine a love in her life, it always seemed to be incomplete without…

"I've always wanted to be a father," Stephen said. "And I would have been happy to adopt, but Amatis… wasn't sure she could. So we argued. About children, about the Circle, about Valentine… Pretty soon there wasn't anything we _could_ talk about without fighting. And I knew it was my fault. She couldn't only grow to hate me and I… I couldn't stay to watch it happen."

Celine sat, absorbing Stephen's story. She had no experience with love or relationships, which made her ill equipped to give advice or consolidation. But she felt sympathy for him. He was clearly hurting. Leaving had not been an easy decision for him. He struggled with it still; with the consequences of his actions. Preventing pain by inflicting pain? It made little sense to Celine, but… he had been kind to her, had listened, and had shared in her grief. She could do the same for him.

Slowly, Celine shifted. She moved carefully along the tree branch, balancing her weight so that she would not fall. Stephen watched her warily until she reached his side. Hesitantly, Celine lifted her good arm, and placed her hand on Stephen's upper arm. She felt him tense beneath her touch, and she stilled. After a moment, he began to relax. A memory from long ago conjured up in her mind; a night when she was small, and had woken from a nightmare. Her mother had come into her room and sat with her, comforting her, her hand moving along her back until she fell asleep.

She began to do that now. She moved her hand gently along his arm, his shoulder, up and down. She didn't know how or why, but as she did, Stephen released the tension within him, letting his head fall back, a soft breath falling from his lips.

Celine wasn't good with words, and she had so little experience in the world that even if she had been, she wouldn't even have had the right words to say. Comforting was not something she knew well – nor was being comforted. But here it was. As strangely as it had begun – with her wanting to slap him, that was – they had somehow found comfort in each other. He had listened as she revealed the darkest parts of herself, and did so without judgment or assumption. And she had heard the conflict of his heart, and had given him what little she could to ease his suffering. Maybe that was all comforting took, she wondered; listening and truly _hearing _someone's woes.

But this felt different… Celine had listened to Stephen, had sympathized – but, as she thought of it, she realized that she rather… _admired_ him. She knew nothing in, in truth, of the decision he had made, but he had made it based on what he believed was the _right _thing to do – even if he hurt himself in the process.

Isn't that what he had said? _I don't pity you, I _admire_ you. _For the strength to do what was needed, even knowing just how hard it truly was.

_That is what it is_, she thought wonderingly. _Mutual respect. _

As the words danced in her head, Celine began to feel the heat of the sun touch the back of her neck where its rays penetrated the canopy above. Sunrise. They had been there longer than she'd realized; her hand still moving absently against the fabric of Stephen's gear in circles, and his head tilted toward the side, almost but not quite touching her own.

But the silence could not last forever. And almost as if in sync with her thoughts, the sound of hooves upon the ground rose up from the quiet. Stephen and Celine, registering the sound at the same time, jostled themselves into a more ready position, waiting to see whether the approaching rider be friend or foe.

It was Valentine, riding upon his horse, Ajax, a relieved look upon his face as they slowed to a stop beneath the canopy and he looked up to see them. He seemed a little surprised, too, as if he hadn't expected to find them there. _Of course, _Celine thought, _you _are_ in a tree_.

"Well, hello there," he called up to them.

"Top of the mornin' to yah," Stephen echoed back in a fairly convincing Irish accent.

"Might I inquire was to what the pair of you might be doing in a tree?"

"Why, enjoying the sunrise, of course,"

Valentine rolled his eyes good naturedly. "Oddly enough, the sun is rising _behind_ you, friend."

"Right you are, Valentine," Stephen said, and without pause leapt down from the tree, over twenty feet, and landed in a graceful crouch upon the ground. He stood and turned to look back at Celine, who couldn't help but turn the corners of her cheeks up at the pair of them below her. "Jump!" Stephen called. "Don't worry about your leg – I'll catch you."

And for some reason, she didn't doubt that he would.

She jumped – and landed with a soft thud in Stephen's arms.

"How did you find us?" she asked Valentine as she clambered down and straightened herself. Her rear rather hurt… _That's what sitting in trees for hours will do to you, _she thought.

"Tracking rune," Valentine replied, eyeing the pair of them curiously. "I used Stephen's bloody boot."

"I _thought _I'd left that at your place…"

"Yes, two nights ago when you were so inebriated you started singing a rather catchy tune about Demon Pox and mallards…"

"Did you find Lillian?" Celine couldn't help interrupting. "Is she okay?"

"She's safe at home – she was a bit scorched, but otherwise fine. We should all go visit her," he added.

"Perhaps I could raise her spirits with another round of singing?"

"Dear friend, from my experience with your choice of tune, it would only do to depress her."

And with a scowl from Stephen and a ringing laugh from Celine, the three began their journey out of Broccelind.


	9. Chapter 9

After that day, Celine saw more of Stephen. They often took patrols together, and realized they made quite the team. Valentine's plate was ever-growing as well, and he often sent Stephen in his stead to train with Celine. They had left the forest with a palpable change between them. Trust, understanding, respect – whatever it was, it was the basis of their friendship. And then, quicker than Celine would have expected, she realized that she had begun to care about Stephen – in _that _way.

Celine had never been in love, and so she wasn't sure if that was what this was. She only knew that she _liked_ him as a person; thought he deserved happiness; that she was happy when she was with him, and that she missed his presence when she wasn't. He made her laugh, made her smile, and made her feel more _real_ than even Valentine.

But she never spoke to him of these things. She knew where his heart belonged, and it had hardly been even two months since the divorce. It would be wrong to voice her feelings now. But… maybe… someday…

**Stephen POV**

Stephen Herondale stood – leaning, really – against the archway before the entrance to the Fairchild manor. He looked out over the green hills of Idris, admiring the fall glow of the trees before him. He didn't have many moments of peace, but ones like this were what gave him strength.

"Do you think you'll marry her?" Valentine's voice surprised Stephen, and he materialized suddenly beside him.

Stephen furrowed his brow. "Who?"

Valentine rolled his eyes. "Celine, of course," he replied, not taking his eyes off the scenery before them.

Stephen almost choked. "_Celine_? _Marry _her?"

"Well, why not," Valentine said in a very reasonable tone that contested Stephen's current frenzy at the idea.

"Because – because I just divorced Amatis!" he spluttered. "Because I still love Amatis – and I –"

"But you and Amatis can never be happy," remarked Valentine. "There is no future for you two – the sister of the wolf-man and the man who replaced him. That's what you said."

"Stephen, you deserve to be happy. I am not a fool. I have watched you with Celine. She makes you happy."

"She does, but- "

"But what?"

"But I love Amatis!"

"You don't love Celine?"

Stephen's first instinct was to say no – to swear that he loved only Amatis, would only _ever _love Amatis, that his heart would forever only be hers. But… Celine was… she was his friend. He cared about her. He admired her, respected her – valued her opinion. He enjoyed being with her, and worried about her happiness. In Celine, he had found someone to whom he could tell anything. There was nothing they felt they could not share. He trusted her more than almost anyone. She was like his best friend. But love?

"Yes, I care for her – deeply," Stephen admitted. "I admire and respect her. Being around her makes my despair over Amatis easier to bear – I am happy around her," he conceded.

"Isn't that what love is?" Valentine offered.

Stephen considered that. It seemed… reasonable. Valentine was _always _reasonable. But it wasn't what he'd known love to be. With Amatis, he had known he'd loved her almost the moment he'd met her. He had never been in love before but he _knew_. He would have, and still would, do anything for her. Amatis was raw passion, undying devotion; the love you read in romance novels. Loving Amatis was like a fire – a raging wildfire that had no hope of being controlled. It was all consuming; a burning tempest that left him feeling burned and aching. It was love as anyone could ever dream. It was everything, the _only _thing, that mattered.

The only thing… until now.

If loving Amatis was a raging fire, Celine was a steady candle flame. Delicate, but… strong. Like Celine herself. Reliable. Sure. Beautiful and arduous in its own right. Loving Celine was…

_Loving_ Celine?

Loving Celine…

Loving Celine was different from love as he'd ever imagined. And was why he had not recognized it. He did love her. Not the way he loved Amatis – he would never love anyone the way he loved Amatis – but the way he loved Celine.

"Yes," he murmured as the sun disappeared beyond the tree tops and hills before them. "I believe it is."


	10. Chapter 10

The screeches of raum demons filled the night air, coarse like nails on a chalkboard. Celine could recognize their Purgatic wailing, and it made the hairs on her neck prickle as she leapt from the rocky ledge, launching kindjals at the scaled creatures with deadly accuracy. It was enough to slow them, and Lillian caught them up easily. With her seraph blade she decapitated one – two of them with a graceful sweep. Ichor gushed, soiling the ground.

"More over here!" Robert waved his hand, ushering them over the slope of the moors, where Stephen, Jeremy, and Michael were busy hacking away at the hoard of demons.

How the _hell _did so many convene together? There had been increasingly unusual demon activity in these parts, and night patrols were not the same 'potential-to-take-a-nap' they had been a few months ago.

Celine rushed into the brawl, skidding to avoid an arrow shooting past her. She heard a sickening sticking sound and glanced behind to see the pursuing demon writhing on the ground, an arrow in its eye. She looked forward and found, of course, Stephen with his bow, grinning at her like a little boy on Christmas morning. She flashed a smile back at him before hacking the legs off a passing demon with her blade.

It took only a small amount of time to assess the situation, decide where she was needed, and rush back into the fray. Stephen's lessons on strategy had been paying off. He was an excellent teacher – though his drawing skills were rather lacking. Instead he'd taken to using mini-marshmallows and m&m's to represent Shadowhunters and demons.

_This _though, this was living. Adrenaline pumping and heart pounding; the feeling of purpose and duty – eliminating evil from the earth. Before coming to Idris, Celine had never felt the pride in being a Shadowhunter; only the shame at being a beaten one. But now… nothing made her feel so much alive as being so near death. It was an addiction. One that she could not live without.

The Nephilim were easily overcoming the demon hoard. Lillian was helping Jeremy dismember a demon to Celine's left, and a second later she was slicing her way through a demon stalking toward Robert. He threw her an approving smile as Michael tackled a demon coming at his back.

The sounds of battle ringing in Celine's ears was both deafening and clarifying at the same time. It was as if all her senses were heightened, here, in the glow of the moon. It was with those senses, and perhaps something more, that Celine noticed Stephen's absence as she cut her way though a screeching demon, splattering ichor over the rocky terrain.

"Stephen?" she sounded, and strained her ears for the familiar sound of his response. None came. Celine scanned the melee once, twice – desperately a third time. He was nowhere in sight. Clenching her teeth, she began to run up the hills of the moors, the grass slick with morning frost, looking for high ground.

From the top of a rocky ledge, Celine looked out over the night.

_Damnt, Stephen where are you? _

Then, there, not too far in the distance, Celine could see the light of a seraph blade like a beacon. It could only be Stephen.

Suddenly, within the timespan of a gust of wind, the light disappeared, and Celine was leaping along the cliff edges – gravel and rock to high grass and back again – as easily as if she were a child playing hop scotch. She flew through the air, never touching the ground but for a split second to launch herself off again.

As she neared the space where the seraph blade had glowed, she could begin to hear the familiar sounds of a struggle; collisions and grunts and the seething gasps of demon. Celine slowed fractionally as she approached, finding the highest peak and sneaking along its spine. She reached behind her back and pulled out her bow and arrow. Without having to think, she molded her body into perfect form, reading to shoot.

Sure enough, Stephen was below, patches of ichor cluttering the grass around him in the small ravine suggested he had already dispatched a number of demons. But now, he was struggling. Celine could see his blade fall from his grasp as a tentacle wrapped around his wrist and tighten. The demon leapt and began to wrap itself around Stephen like a star fish about to devour its prey, and Stephen began to claw at the thing until – Celine's arrow sunk deep into the demon's flesh, causing it to scream and squirm, giving Stephen exactly enough time to retrieve a dagger from his belt and cut the demon cleanly through. It fell to the ground, and within an instant had dissolved, returning to its own realm.

Breathing hard, nose flaring Celine glowed as she stood triumphant, looking out over the mist covered green of the rough terrain. Everything about the moment was perfect – the cool air, the glimmer of the sky, and the feeling of euphoria that she only ever got after battle. She would remember that moment till her dying breath, she thought. Though, she would never know how the man below her stared in awe, mesmerized by this breathtaking woman, this avenging angel with a golden halo of hair sent by God himself.

When Stephen finally moved, Celine cast her eyes down, settling upon him, and beamed. "You were very nearly demon kibble down there, Herondale," she teased. "Getting rusty?

Stephen clutched his chest and staggered backward as if wounded. "Them's fighting words, m'lady. My poor ego –"

"The day your ego is damaged is the day demons sing lullabies,"

Stephen grinned crookedly, his head tilted to the side. "True." And then he turned around, craning his neck back to look at her. "Jump!" Celine grinned back and leapt from the cliff, flying gracefully, and landing lightly on Stephen's back. She laughed with glee as he pulled her around to face him and held her steadily before him.

Their eyes locked, and suddenly Celine caught her breath. The look on Stephen's face was tender – all male bravado and teasing gone. What? Celine couldn't fathom what would make him look at her like that. She didn't think anyone had ever looked at her like _that_. Was it… could that be how she often found herself looking at _him_? Surely not. He loved Amatis, and she was nothing – nothing he could want or love or…

Stephen's blue eyes were soft as he looked at her, and when he whispered her name like a hymn the sweetness of his breath washed over her face, making her thoughts scatter as, somehow, their faces moved closer…

His lips touched hers, so lightly she wasn't even sure they had at first – the anticipation of it having been so palpable she thought she'd been more aware of senses. It was soft, and his lips were slightly wet, but she only wanted more. She _needed _more. Gathering her courage, she pressed herself closer, her hands falling to his chest as his cupped her face. _Oh mon dieu. _

And in that moment, there was no war; there was no painful past or terrifying future. There was only this – a reprieve; a safe haven. An anchor in the storm.


	11. Chapter 11

It took about two weeks for Stephen to ask Celine to move in with him, and only about two seconds for her to concede. She didn't need time to know that she loved and trusted Stephen Herondale with every piece of her heart, or that the only thing that could make her happier than she already was, was for his face to be the one she saw every morning. He'd smiled and pulled her close, and whispered into her hair that they would be happy together.

And despite the worsening conditions with the Circle, they _were_ happy. Stephen gave Celine a life and a love that she had never envisioned for herself. And she liked to think she gave him the peace and love he needed to find contentment in the world, despite the pressures he was under.

Life in the Herondale manor was more a home than Celine had ever had. She wasn't afraid to muss things or reorganize, to drop something and not fear repercussions even in the back of her mind; or even to bring a cat home. Which she did, and Stephen named it Frodo, after some character from a book he'd read. They snuggled up by the fire after long days, spent hours reading book passages to each other in the library, and even held a dinner party or two – where they met their friends' children – Morgenstern, Lightwood, and Wayland all.

It was after one of these such dinner parties, after having finally met Valentine and Jocelyn's newborn son, that Stephen and Celine became engaged. On the sofa by the raging fire, an old Herondale family copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ on Stephen's lap, Celine rested her head against his shoulder, listening to him read aloud.

Celine woke in a cold sweat in an unfamiliar bed, her breath coming in gasps. She grasped around herself, feeling the sheets between her fingers, staring at the grey early morning light that showed through the gaps in the curtains of the window, grasping at reality. Oh god – what a dream… It was _just _a dream. She was safe. There was no cause for alarm here. The Fairchild manor was perfectly safe, nothing here that could hurt her…

But the dream… no dream she'd ever had had been so vivid, the senses so real; the smell and rot of demons, of blood; the pain as something tore mercilessly at her abdomen; and the sound of her own cries for mercy –

_Stop, _she commanded herself. Just a dream. And a dream would _not _ruin the night before her wedding.

The wedding!

Celine had nearly forgotten the reason for her being in the Fairchild home, without Stephen. It wasn't a grand affair, what with Stephen's divorce not yet a year behind them. Nevertheless, this was her wedding day! Not a day to let night terrors set the mood for. This would be the happiest day of her entire life.

And suddenly her heart was pounding for an entirely different reason. From the look of the sky beyond the window, it couldn't yet be six. Perhaps she should try to sleep more. Then again… no, it was no use. She was awake, and now far too excited to try to sleep again. Throwing back the covers, Celine ran to the washroom and practically bounced in and out of the shower within minutes, humming lullabies to herself. The ritual wasn't to be held until the early afternoon, but simply staying in her room, staring at her golden gown was unthinkable.

Celine, the dream completely forgotten, strode towards the wardrobe with a giddy skip in her step.

Jocelyn and Lillian rode out from the manor together before midday under a grey, cloud covered sky. Celine was riding sidesaddle, her wedding dress not allowing for easy riding. Stephen and Valentine would meet them in Alicante where, despite the tensions with the Clave, the ceremony would take place.

"I am sorry it's such a bleak day," Jocelyn consoled as they rode through the hills.

Celine smiled. "Don't be. I smell snow coming," she assured knowingly. Jocelyn returned her smile, if a little reluctantly.

Celine knew of her relationship with Stephen's ex-wife, understood that their union could not be easy for her to watch as a friend. Nevertheless, Jocelyn had always been kind. She had never been cruel or petty, and Celine admired her for it. Especially with the stress she must be feeling as a new mother. Little Jonathan was asleep, tucked into the baby carrier upon Jocelyn's back. Celine watched him as they rode, admiring his good behavior. Such a handsome face; Every day more and more like his father's.

Unable to help it, Celine wondered when she and Stephen would have children of their own. They had spoke a little of it – an not very seriously, at that. Any discussion they'd had had ended with outlandish declarations of having a dozen children with at least two sets of twins, followed by talk of giving Frodo the cat some company of dogs, sheep, cows, ferrets, and chinchillas…

But, in Celine's heart, she knew how seriously she craved a child. Though she felt that she had little right to hope for more than Stephen had already given her, she yearned for the unconditional love that came with motherhood – the relationship Maryse had with Alexander, Jocelyn with Jonathan. Mothers and children.

When they reached the city of glass, they went straight to Angel Square, dismounting just as the first flakes of snow began to fall. Clary and Jocelyn shared a conspiratorial look.

"Here, let me help you straighten your dress," Lillian approached. She reached out her hands and began to smooth the ruffles of Celine's dress. It was of golden lace, a sleeve falling from one shoulder and ending in a point at the tip of her index finger – leaving the other shoulder bare, allowing for the runes; her skirts falling around her like rays of the sun. It had taken her less than ten minutes to pick it out. It was one of the simpler gowns. She hadn't wanted a big fanfare – which had more to do with her simple tastes than her woes for marrying not at all far from Amatis's house, no matter how that guilt weighed on her.

"Thank you," she grinned at her friend as the snow began to fall more heavily. A real storm was picking up – snow covering the ground around them. From the stone road leading to the Hall of Accords came a Silent Brother in parchment robes, sent from the Bone City to oversee the union. His footsteps were, as always, silent, his face covered by his hood.

_Greetings_, a voice in her head echoed.

"Thank you for coming," Celine whispered in the cold. "I appreciate your amiability,"

_It is not for me to judge the love Nephilim bear for each other based upon their social… circles._

Celine couldn't help blush, but bent her head in thanks.

That was when the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow made her look up. There was Stephen, looking like heaven all in gold – a button down and jacket. He was smiling at her as he walked forward, and a grin spread across her face in response. Valentine was close behind him. As he came closer, he reached for her and pulled her close, and she fell into his arms with ease. He smelled familiar – like wood and fire and some cologne he'd worn every day since she'd met him.

"Stephen," she whispered happily.

"Hello, darling," he said, pulling back to look at her. "You are so beautiful," his lips moved delicately, his eyes full of something she couldn't name. He looked around her at the small gathering. "Brother Zachariah," he said, with a familiarity that surprised Celine. "It is good to see you again,"

The silent brother nodded in his direction and – was that a _smile_ on his lips? But as soon as she thought she'd seen it, it was gone.

"Are you sure?" Celine whispered close to Stephen's ear so that only he could hear, unexpectedly to even herself. His eyes looked surprised.

"Of course," he returned. "I am sure. I do not doubt you or myself for one second."

And in his words, Celine found comfort. Any doubts she might have had as to his love for her were swept away with the winter wind. She knew he would never love her the way he had loved his first wife – but she _hoped_ that their loves were different. Both their loves were unique; and even so, she loved Stephen with everything she had, and had faith in his love for her.

"Well, shall we?" Valentine's voice rang out.

Stephen through his friend a grin before turning back to Celine with a breathtaking smile. "We shall."

Standing before the frozen angel fountain, the snow falling heavily around them with snow flakes coating their hair and eyelashes as their cheeks turned rosy with the frosty air, Stephen and Celine were married. The words were spoken, coming out in puffs of heat from their lips, and the runes were drawn – giving off an oddly comforting warmth. The Silent Brother gave them the blessing of the Angel and wished them both eternal happiness, and then their frozen lips met in a chaste kiss.

That night was the first time they'd made love. There hadn't been any particular reason for waiting, but Celine was glad that they had. In the post-wedding, mid-winter-storm glow, nothing could have been more perfect. Isolated by the storm, they wrapped themselves up in one another for hours – for days.

And sex! Oh the sex. The delectable taboo of skin on skin, layers of sweet smelling sweat coating their bodies, lips pressing gently at first, becoming more desperate, eager to remove even the air between them. It was fire in her veins, and in the wild moments of ecstasy in her husband's arms, she felt as if the name she now bore had some truth to it; for she felt as if she could fly.


	12. Chapter 12

Celine clutched the edge of the kitchen counter, the cool granite a welcome sensation against the heat of her skin. She sniffed, trying to ignore the pressure in her sinuses. Reaching for a glass from the cupboard, she turned the faucet on with her free hand and filled the fine crystal glass that had been a wedding gift from Michael Wayland. Celine spit the water into the sink, praying the rancid taste in her mouth would go away.

It was the third time Celine had been sick that morning; After the second she had sent a fire message to the Silent Brothers. After a full week of consistent waves of nausea and retching, she had decided calling upon the brotherhood would not jinx anything. Though, she hadn't been sure enough to share her suspicions with her husband.

The husband in question had been gone all week, having left for Paris with Valentine and Robert to take the lead on the Circle's raid on the vampire clan. Though welcome to join the fight, Celine had decided she was not yet prepared to return to her former home.

And so she had stayed behind – and had decided that it had been the grace of the Angel that had kept her here. Otherwise she would have been useless to the Circle, regurgitating anything she ate.

A fire message had arrived within the hour of the first being sent. It was Brother Zachariah who had responded – Celine was no longer surprised by his familiarity with her husband; some long lost ancestor's parabatai acting as a guardian over the decades. Nor was she surprised that he would insist upon examining her himself. It was sweet, and heartbreaking, but also comforting that a Brother with a personal fondness for the family would be her primary care-giver if she _were _pregnant. The other Silent Brothers always gave Celine the shivers – but Brother Zachariah was somehow more human. And despite Stephen's current estrangement, he had been nothing but amiable.

Stephen's estrangement… if Celine was carrying a baby, they would need to consider remedying that estrangement…

Celine returned to her nest on the couch, and blankets fell around her like a cocoon as she lay herself down and, and slipped to the side to reveal the book she'd been reading; Shakespeare's _Richard III_. She was nearing the glorified ending – the defeat of the kniving and manipulative duke who plotted murder upon murder to clear his path to the crown – no matter their relationship or shared history.

_A horse, my kingdom for a horse_.

In the end, after all the bloodshed, he'd been willing to give it all up to simply keep his life.

How sad, Celine thought, to have committed so many wrongs in the pursuit of – what? Something he certainly no right to. What possible motivation could provoke such… evil?

The sound of brass against wood pulled Celine back to the present – the very cautious present in which one should not get their hopes up. She moved carefully toward the foyer, treading softly upon the marble tiles and trying not to jostle her stomach. She pulled the oak front door open.

_Good day_, Brother Zachariah bowed his head, looking something like a Spector in the warmth of the foyer.

"Please, come in," Celine stepped back. "Thank you for responding so quickly."

_The well-being of the Herondale bloodline is of great importance to me; I am pleased to be of service. _

"You are too kind, Brother Zachariah. _Merci_,"

Brother Zachariah nodded once more. _I will require a sold surface upon which to perform the examination; a table or the like._

"We can use the kitchen counter," Celine offered, and led the way to the kitchen. "Can I help you with anything?" she asked as they passed through the hall beside the stairwell, entering the vaulted ceilinged space of the den, which opened into the kitchen.

_No, thank you. But if you will put on this… _He produced from within his robes a white, sheet-looking garb. _Examination gown…_

"Of course," Celine conceded, taking the gown and retreating to the first floor restroom. She shut the door behind her, and with a sigh, turned toward the mirror. Removing her sweater, Celine couldn't help but stare at her reflection.

She was no longer thin or sickly-looking; no more shadows under her eyes or patches of red or yellowing swells of bruises on her skin. Marks covered her instead, like a lace doily painted silver upon her fair skin, like the winter frost upon a windowpane. And she had curves – still petite in form but now with a _presence_. Chords of muscle and toned fat upon her bones from hours upon hours of training covered her body, and she wore them proudly. No longer the skeleton of a beaten girl; the body of a Shadowhunter. The body of a woman. Strong.

_This is someone worthy of this life_, she thought. She was a daughter of the angel – wife and mother of Nephilim. The blood of the Angel in her veins and in her heart.

With the gown on, Celine returned to the kitchen. Brother Zachariah had transformed it in her absence. Witchlight illuminated the kitchen, with runes of strength glowing out of their containers. A sterile while cloth covered the counter and a strange, steele-like instrument had been placed at the end.

_If you could lie down_, Brother Zachariah gestured to the make-shift hospital bed.

The entire procedure took under five minutes. Brother Zachariah instructed Celine to lie down wherever she felt comfortable – but somewhere spacious that gave them mobility. She opted to lie on the kitchen counter, hoping it would make this feel like an infirmary visit. It helped a little, though she felt a little awkward. But what doctor's examination wasn't? She shut her eyes and breathed through her nose as Brother Zachariah instructed her to relax.

_I will be drawing some runes_, his voice sounded. _They will take a few minutes to take effect. The more still you are, the faster it will be._

Celine did as she was told and waited silently as something traced across the skin of her upper arm. It didn't feel like a steele, but she wasn't quite tempted to open her eyes. The drawing moved across her collar and down to the skin over her heart – still very modestly. And then it stopped, and the sensation disappeared. _Stay still_, Brother Zachariah reminded her.

_Please_, she thought. _Please let it be true._

No matter how sure she'd been, she still felt anxious. Like a test you knew you'd studied for and should be easy, but you can't help but worry. _Just like a pregnancy test_, she told herself. You can't fail. And even if you do, you can try again… and again and again…

_It is a boy_.

"What?" Celine's eyes snapped open and she sat up faster than she'd moved all week. Did she imagine it? Her eyes bore into those of the Silent Brother.

_You are pregnant, Celine Herondale. The child you carry is a boy. Almost two and a half months since conception. _

"_What?_"

Celine's eyes darted toward the entryway. Zachariah's gaze followed hers. There stood Stephen, eyes bulging and mouth agape, with his quiver strapped to his back and bow in hand, which he promptly dropped. It hit the ground with a clatter.

"Stephen!" Celine piped, and her heart was still pounding. She leaped down from the counter and went to his side. She took his hand in hers. "Stephen?"

His eyes followed her throughout her movement, and rested on her as she came to a stop, still wide. "You're pregnant?" he asked.

Celine glanced at Brother Zachariah. He nodded.

She turned back to Stephen. "Mmhmm," she murmured.

"You're sure?" he asked again.

She had to keep herself from rolling her eyes. "Unless you think Brother Zachariah has a reason to lie…" she felt her hands shaking in nervous anticipation. _What are you thinking, damnt! _"I'm sure."

Slowly, the corners of Stephen's mouth began to turn up until his entire face was lit up by his smile. His eyes glowed with happiness and Celine felt herself give in to her own happiness. "You're pregnant," he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm pregnant," she agreed in her quiet voice.

"We're going to have a baby,"

"We're going to have a son,"

Stephen cupped her face in his hand and whispered, "We're going to have a son," before he pulled her lips to his and kissed her.

Only minutes later, Stephen had begun to panic. "We need baby supplies!" he'd leapt from the couch, shouting. "We need diapers! And food! And clothes! Blankets – Oh god we have to teach him to _read_. How do you teach someone to read?! Or… or how do you teach them not to soil themselves. Diapers! We need diapers!" He'd paced throughout the room in a frenzy, Celine laughing the whole while until he nearly slipped on the wooden floor in his socks. He balanced himself on a crystal figurine of a stallion on the coffee table and suddenly shouted, "HE NEEDS A HORSE." Then he sprinted from the room, and was not seen for hours. He returned home in the evening, kissing his wife on the forehead as he crawled into their bed, and whispered, "He'll have the finest stallion alive."


	13. Chapter 13

Celine clutched the edge of the kitchen counter, the cool granite a welcome sensation against the heat of her skin. She sniffed, trying to ignore the pressure in her sinuses. Reaching for a glass from the cupboard, she turned the faucet on with her free hand and filled the fine crystal glass that had been a wedding gift from Michael Wayland. Celine spit the water into the sink, praying the rancid taste in her mouth would go away.

It was the third time Celine had been sick that morning; After the second she had sent a fire message to the Silent Brothers. After a full week of consistent waves of nausea and retching, she had decided calling upon the brotherhood would not jinx anything. Though, she hadn't been sure enough to share her suspicions with her husband.

The husband in question had been gone all week, having left for Paris with Valentine and Robert to take the lead on the Circle's raid on the vampire clan. Though welcome to join the fight, Celine had decided she was not yet prepared to return to her former home.

And so she had stayed behind – and had decided that it had been the grace of the Angel that had kept her here. Otherwise she would have been useless to the Circle, regurgitating anything she ate.

A fire message had arrived within the hour of the first being sent. It was Brother Zachariah who had responded – Celine was no longer surprised by his familiarity with her husband; some long lost ancestor's parabatai acting as a guardian over the decades. Nor was she surprised that he would insist upon examining her himself. It was sweet, and heartbreaking, but also comforting that a Brother with a personal fondness for the family would be her primary care-giver if she _were _pregnant. The other Silent Brothers always gave Celine the shivers – but Brother Zachariah was somehow more human. And despite Stephen's current estrangement, he had been nothing but amiable.

Stephen's estrangement… if Celine was carrying a baby, they would need to consider remedying that estrangement…

Celine returned to her nest on the couch, and blankets fell around her like a cocoon as she lay herself down and, and slipped to the side to reveal the book she'd been reading; Shakespeare's _Richard III_. She was nearing the glorified ending – the defeat of the kniving and manipulative duke who plotted murder upon murder to clear his path to the crown – no matter their relationship or shared history.

_A horse, my kingdom for a horse_.

In the end, after all the bloodshed, he'd been willing to give it all up to simply keep his life.

How sad, Celine thought, to have committed so many wrongs in the pursuit of – what? Something he certainly no right to. What possible motivation could provoke such… evil?

The sound of brass against wood pulled Celine back to the present – the very cautious present in which one should not get their hopes up. She moved carefully toward the foyer, treading softly upon the marble tiles and trying not to jostle her stomach. She pulled the oak front door open.

_Good day_, Brother Zachariah bowed his head, looking something like a Spector in the warmth of the foyer.

"Please, come in," Celine stepped back. "Thank you for responding so quickly."

_The well-being of the Herondale bloodline is of great importance to me; I am pleased to be of service. _

"You are too kind, Brother Zachariah. _Merci_,"

Brother Zachariah nodded once more. _I will require a sold surface upon which to perform the examination; a table or the like._

"We can use the kitchen counter," Celine offered, and led the way to the kitchen. "Can I help you with anything?" she asked as they passed through the hall beside the stairwell, entering the vaulted ceilinged space of the den, which opened into the kitchen.

_No, thank you. But if you will put on this… _He produced from within his robes a white, sheet-looking garb. _Examination gown…_

"Of course," Celine conceded, taking the gown and retreating to the first floor restroom. She shut the door behind her, and with a sigh, turned toward the mirror. Removing her sweater, Celine couldn't help but stare at her reflection.

She was no longer thin or sickly-looking; no more shadows under her eyes or patches of red or yellowing swells of bruises on her skin. Marks covered her instead, like a lace doily painted silver upon her fair skin, like the winter frost upon a windowpane. And she had curves – still petite in form but now with a _presence_. Chords of muscle and toned fat upon her bones from hours upon hours of training covered her body, and she wore them proudly. No longer the skeleton of a beaten girl; the body of a Shadowhunter. The body of a woman. Strong.

_This is someone worthy of this life_, she thought. She was a daughter of the angel – wife and mother of Nephilim. The blood of the Angel in her veins and in her heart.

With the gown on, Celine returned to the kitchen. Brother Zachariah had transformed it in her absence. Witchlight illuminated the kitchen, with runes of strength glowing out of their containers. A sterile while cloth covered the counter and a strange, steele-like instrument had been placed at the end.

_If you could lie down_, Brother Zachariah gestured to the make-shift hospital bed.

The entire procedure took under five minutes. Brother Zachariah instructed Celine to lie down wherever she felt comfortable – but somewhere spacious that gave them mobility. She opted to lie on the kitchen counter, hoping it would make this feel like an infirmary visit. It helped a little, though she felt a little awkward. But what doctor's examination wasn't? She shut her eyes and breathed through her nose as Brother Zachariah instructed her to relax.

_I will be drawing some runes_, his voice sounded. _They will take a few minutes to take effect. The more still you are, the faster it will be._

Celine did as she was told and waited silently as something traced across the skin of her upper arm. It didn't feel like a steele, but she wasn't quite tempted to open her eyes. The drawing moved across her collar and down to the skin over her heart – still very modestly. And then it stopped, and the sensation disappeared. _Stay still_, Brother Zachariah reminded her.

_Please_, she thought. _Please let it be true._

No matter how sure she'd been, she still felt anxious. Like a test you knew you'd studied for and should be easy, but you can't help but worry. _Just like a pregnancy test_, she told herself. You can't fail. And even if you do, you can try again… and again and again…

_It is a boy_.

"What?" Celine's eyes snapped open and she sat up faster than she'd moved all week. Did she imagine it? Her eyes bore into those of the Silent Brother.

_You are pregnant, Celine Herondale. The child you carry is a boy. Almost two and a half months since conception. _

"_What?_"

Celine's eyes darted toward the entryway. Zachariah's gaze followed hers. There stood Stephen, eyes bulging and mouth agape, with his quiver strapped to his back and bow in hand, which he promptly dropped. It hit the ground with a clatter.

"Stephen!" Celine piped, and her heart was still pounding. She leaped down from the counter and went to his side. She took his hand in hers. "Stephen?"

His eyes followed her throughout her movement, and rested on her as she came to a stop, still wide. "You're pregnant?" he asked.

Celine glanced at Brother Zachariah. He nodded.

She turned back to Stephen. "Mmhmm," she murmured.

"You're sure?" he asked again.

She had to keep herself from rolling her eyes. "Unless you think Brother Zachariah has a reason to lie…" she felt her hands shaking in nervous anticipation. _What are you thinking, damnt! _"I'm sure."

Slowly, the corners of Stephen's mouth began to turn up until his entire face was lit up by his smile. His eyes glowed with happiness and Celine felt herself give in to her own happiness. "You're pregnant," he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm pregnant," she agreed in her quiet voice.

"We're going to have a baby,"

"We're going to have a son,"

Stephen cupped her face in his hand and whispered, "We're going to have a son," before he pulled her lips to his and kissed her.

Only minutes later, Stephen had begun to panic. "We need baby supplies!" he'd leapt from the couch, shouting. "We need diapers! And food! And clothes! Blankets – Oh god we have to teach him to _read_. How do you teach someone to read?! Or… or how do you teach them not to soil themselves. Diapers! We need diapers!" He'd paced throughout the room in a frenzy, Celine laughing the whole while until he nearly slipped on the wooden floor in his socks. He balanced himself on a crystal figurine of a stallion on the coffee table and suddenly shouted, "HE NEEDS A HORSE." Then he sprinted from the room, and was not seen for hours. He returned home in the evening, kissing his wife on the forehead as he crawled into their bed, and whispered, "He'll have the finest stallion alive."


	14. Chapter 14

The Fairchild manor was a lovely reprieve from the heat of the summer sun. The stone walls were cool and inviting as Celine walked through the foyer, a step behind Stephen. They had been invited for lunch, an early meal before the circle meeting in the evening.

Valentine led the way to the sitting room, he and Stephen laughing freely with wrinkles around their eyes from smiling.

"Where's Jocelyn?" Celine asked curiously. She secretly meant, "Where's Jonathan Christopher?" She had baby fever.

Valentine smiled knowingly. "She's upstairs putting Jonathan down for his nap – she will join us shortly,"

Jocelyn came down stairs not long after, whispering apologies for her lateness. She looked exhausted, Celine thought. Lunch was delicious; tea and cucumber sandwiches to start, followed by a hearty bisque and smoked ham with assorted vegetables. All was perfect until Jocelyn served a creamed-mallard rice, at which point Celine sprinted with the speed of the wind for the restroom.

The smell! Ugh! Never had she smelled anything quite so horrible. Her stomach roiled and she retched again and again, ignoring the sounds outside the door.

"Celine? Celine, darling, are you alright?"

"It must have been the food," Jocelyn was whispering. "But everything was perfectly fresh – straight from the garden or –"

"She's pregnant," Stephen stopped her. "We found out a week ago – your cooking is lovely. She probably just found a smell that hit her the wrong way…"

"Oh!"

"Congratulations, my friend."

Celine rinsed her mouth before opening the door, gargling the god-forsaken taste out of her taste buds. The three of them stood before her, and she smiled sheepishly.

"Well, congratulations, Celine," Valentine grinned. Beside him Jocelyn smiled, too.

"Thank you, both. I'm so sorry about lunch…"

"Oh, not another word," insisted Valentine. "I'm going to go make up a tisane for you – see if we can settle that stomach of yours."

They returned to the sitting room, and Jocelyn quickly took away the mallard sauce. Stephen glared after the offending dish as it disappeared through the doorway. "I never did like ducks." He growled.

Celine giggled as Valentine returned. He held out a cup for her. It was warm and smelled like every good thing you could imagine, and had a golden sheen reflecting from its surface.

"This should help," Valentine said modestly. "It's specifically designed for pregnant women. My mother swore by it,"

"Well if it helped bring someone such as yourself into the world it must be excellent," Celine teased. She took another whiff of the delectable substance, and brought it to her mouth. Her head swam with a strange, overwhelming sense of warmth and comfort as she tilted the cup to her lips, and drank.

It was an evening meeting for the Circle that prompted Celine. She'd watched wistfully as Jocelyn's mother took Jonathan from his mother and kissed the blonde tuft of hair on the top of his head. The two of them disappeared through the foyer, bouncing gently, the sounds of lullabies trailing in their wake.

Celine wanted her child to have grandparents.

And the more she thought about it, the better the idea seemed. If something happened to her or to Stephen, what would happen to their son?

Her own parents were out of the question. There was no way in heaven or in hell that she would let those people taint her son's life.

Of course, that left only…

"I think you should talk to your parents."

Stephen choked on his Sheppard's pie. Celine waited for him to clear his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"_What?"_

"I think… that you should talk to your parents," she repeated. "You don't have to, of course, and I won't argue if you are truly against it – but I think it is a good idea."

Stephen was still staring blankly at her. "But why?" he asked, his surprise ringing clear in his voice. "Where did this idea come from?"

Celine put down her fork before answering. "I'm pregnant, we are about to have a baby. Don't you think that's something your parents would want to, and should, know? More than that, we're Shadowhunters. Our lives are shorter than most; and if something were to happen to us, I would want to know that our son would have a family there for him – who loves him as much as we do."

Stephen was gnawing his cheek. He took a sip of water – he'd given up alcohol as soon as she had, for moral support. Brow furrowed, he considered for another moment before, "I'll think about it," he conceded.

And that was how Celine finally met her in-laws.

Imogen had flung herself at her son the moment he had opened the door, hysterical with tears erupting from the corners of her cheeks at a spitfire pace. Marcus had smiled sheepishly over his wife's shoulder, while Stephen waved awkwardly toward him.

Imogen had fair hair and a face etched with laugh lines – her eyes were bright and excited, though a little worn from worry. She was tall and fit, but slender – her hands slightly bony. Marcus was her opposite in many ways. They shared similar height, but Stephen's father had the stature of a great oak. He had chords of muscle still visible beneath his sweater – it would have been terrifying if his hair hadn't been flopped into his face and his cheeks a decidedly _un_-intimidating shade of pink.

Celine was showing by then, and when Imogen saw her it was clear that Stephen had _not_ mentioned the baby in his latter to his parents.

When he managed to pull away from his struggling mother, he put an arm around Celine and said, "Mum, Dad, this is Celine – my wife. She's the one who convinced me to write – "

"And she's pregnant!" Imogen let out a hiccup. "Oh – welcome to the family, Celine –" and she promptly threw her arms around Celine. It seemed that giving your mother-in-law a grandchild was a sure way of winning her affections.

"Congratulations, Stephen," Marcus grinned with rosy cheeks, clapping his son on the shoulders. Stephen grinned back, and the family resemblance was striking.

"Boy or girl?" Imogen asked, taking Celine's hands.

"Boy," Celine answered shyly.

"You'll be naming him Marcus, of course," Marcus interjected, his expression filled with mischief.

"Oh without a doubt," sarcasm dripped in Stephen's voice as he rolled his eyes. "It was a tough decision, though. You know it was a hard tie between 'Marcus' and 'Hubert-Hemmingway-Herondale.' Catchy, don't you think?"

"Points for alliteration, but Marcus is a far better name. It has been scientifically proven to attract the opposite sex – and combined with the Herondale genes, has a one-hundred-percent rate of success in offers of marriage." He wagged his finger at Stephen. "_Science_."

Stephen barked out a laugh. Celine couldn't stop grinning and she too, began laughing as she watched Imogen shoot daggers at her husband, yet unable to hide her smile.

The evening had been warm, full of smiles and laughter. Imogen had insisted that they come for Christmas, and that Celine call her 'mum.' They had gossiped over tea and discussed Mundane affairs over dinner. The subject of the Circle was strictly avoided throughout – which was for the best. As far as Imogen and Marcus knew, Celine and Stephen had nothing to do with it anymore. _Ignorance is bliss…_ Thought Celine.

Stephen and his father had stepped out the drink brandy and smoke cigars – or whatever it was that men did when they wandered off – while Celine and Imogen talked about the best mothering tips and baby books. Though, Celine couldn't help hearing Marcus and Stephen speaking as they left the room…

"Have you spoken to her lately?" Marcus had asked as they'd left the room.

Stephen had nodded his head once. "We've corresponded. Amatis knows everything and I intend – "

Celine hadn't been able to hear more.


	15. Chapter 15

It had been a long day. Although, when you were seven months pregnant, every day felt like a long day. Long hadn't necessarily been bad… it had simply left Celine yearning for her bed and a hot mug full of the sweet tisane.

Stephen had discouraged her from riding too far, but she'd had to get out of the house. She had spent too many days sitting and twiddling her thumbs. So she'd gone to see Maryse, to take little Alexander off her hands just for a little while so she could rest before the Circle meeting that night. He had slept most of the day – according to Maryse he'd been up half the night – and Celine had rocked him in her arms and sung him sweet songs she'd learned as a girl. "Someday very soon you'll have a new friend," she'd cooed. "A little brother, someone to learn with and train with, to grow with…" She smiled at the memory.

Once inside the house and away from the bitter cold of snow flurries outside Celine's chills started to fade. A fire was on. She shrugged off the fur coat that had been a gift from Imogen, kicked off her boots, and half slid across the oak floors on her socks through the house and into the den.

Stephen was there, sprawled out upon the couch, papers on his lap. He looked up as she came into the room, and smiled.

"There you are," he disposed of his papers as she came around the side of the couch. She looked at the chaos on sheets around him intently. "Hey," Stephen smiled.

"You're home early," Celine noted. "What were you writing?"

"Oh, nothing, just a missive to Elijah about Chicago…"

He placed the papers on the coffee table, and opened his arms to her. She did not miss his fingers tuck the top sheet of paper behind the others. She went into his embrace, willingly, but tentatively, her heart pounding. His arms wrapped around her, warming her chilled skin. But her eyes wandered toward the papers. She couldn't help it. And out of the corner of her eye, she could clearly make out the corner of the last page, peaking out beneath the layers. _Dear Am-_

She pulled away.

"Anything new about Chicago?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm and neutral as she wandered toward the kitchen. She watched him shrug out of the corner of her eye as she went into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.

"Oh, you know, new tactic…" he waved a hand airily.

"Is that what you were writing to Elijah?" she asked, taking a sip. This was the bait. She waited to see how he would bite.

"Mmm," he ran a hand through his hair absently. "Yeah,"

Her heart sunk.

Lillian had told Celine about Elijah's being there in Idris for the meeting that week, visiting his sister. He was lying.

Celine leaned against the kitchen island. She set the water aside and gripped the granite edges. Her hands felt clammy.

"Mmm. And how long have you been writing to Amatis?"

Stephen froze where he stood, and looked up. His lips parted. She could see from where she stood that his pupils were nearly completely dilated.

"Or, better yet, how long have you been lying to me to cover up the fact that you've been writing to Amatis. Because I know you've been doing that at least since I got pregnant."

She stood stock still as he stared, mouth gaping. He finally had the sense to close it. Only to open it again. "Celine I – " he moved towards her, hands outstretched, "I didn't – "

"Do us both a favor and tell the truth," and this time her voice shakes. She couldn't help it. Her hands shake in sync with the sound of her voice and her heart pounds as her palms begin to sweat. Pressure stings behind her eyes. _Don't you cry, Celine. Don't you dare cry._

He was in front of her now, only a few feet separating them.

"Since a few weeks before the wedding" he whispered.

There it was. The crushing blow. She had known what it was, that it couldn't replace what he'd had. But she had at least thought she had been enough. But she would never be enough.

She nodded. Her mind was made up. "Okay. I'll go get my things."

Celine forced her feet to move. She felt herself moving, leaving the kitchen, and heading into the hallway towards the stairs.

She wouldn't need much. Just a few pants and sweaters in a bag – her steele. She could go back to Maryse and tend to the baby for her – or go to Valentine's… she was always welcome there…

Suddenly his hand was gripped around her arm, stopping her and spinning her around to face him. "What do you mean get your things?" His eyes were panicked. Concerned?

"I am going upstairs to pack some clothes and I am leaving this house." She growled, her eyes blazing. Her anger was the only thing that would keep her from falling to pieces right now. Pregnant, ashamed, and alone...

"Because of the letters? I don't understand – I know I shouldn't have hid – "

"No! You shouldn't have! Though I understand perfectly, even if you do not, Stephen." She spun on her heel and began to march away again. She could hear him stomping behind her in pursuit. She tried to shake away the images in her head – the time's she had run from the sound of boots following her through the Institute…

"What then?" he shouted after her. "What do you understand? Enlighten me, if you will, before you walk out on me!" his voice reached a striking octave.

Celine whipped around, her hair flying. Stephen stopped dead in his tracks to avoid crashing into her.

"Before _I_ walk out on _you_?" she almost shrieked. "Don't you _dare _make this out to be my fault, Stephen Herondale. I am not leaving because I _want _to, because I'm _dying _to get out of this marriage. I'm leaving because I_ refuse to stay with a man who does not love me_!" She felt like that shard of her heart was shattering in that moment, the words spilling out, finally. Her fear, always. Built up and kept safe behind a wall. But the dam was breaking. "I am not to be pitied." She made the word sound like a curse. Something repulsive. It was to her.

Stephen's eyes blazed.

"You think I married you out of _pity_?" his voice rose as they glared at each other.

"What else could it be? Was it because Valentine _told _you to? Because _he _pitied my past and my baggage and wanted me to be taken care of and watched like a pet?"

"No - !"

"Because it couldn't be because you loved me. If that was the case, you wouldn't have spent _months_ lying to me, keeping secrets from me – only so that you could share it all with _her_?"

This, finally, stunned him to silence. Celine had never begrudged his first wife. Had always felt for her and for the situation they two had been put in. But now, because of him and his lies, she felt… couldn't help feeling… venomous.

"I never _cared_, Stephen. I knew I could never replace what you two shared. But I thought, at least, that you loved me, too. Never the same, but truly. And because of that I never cared that you wrote to her, that your feelings for her would never be gone. Because I thought it was separate from _us_. But when you lie and you keep things from me – that is how I know I how wrong I was."

"You're angry that I've lied? Not that I was writing to her?" he said after a moment, his voice contemplative.

She rolled her eyes. "I am not a child, Stephen. You know that. I knew what I was doing when I married you. I know you. I know how you care for her. And I wouldn't dare to presume I could, nor would I want to, take that from you. But neither would I have ever agreed to marry you if I had known of your… your indifference toward me."

Suddenly, the fire blazed in his icy eyes again. She couldn't help but notice as all the muscles in his shoulders and arms tensed. She flinched, the slightest wince. Thankfully, his fury seemed to make him blind to it.

"_Indifference_?" his breath was ragged. "You think I married you because of something Valentine said? Or because I felt _sorry_ for you? Do you really think so little of me, Celine? I asked you to marry me because _I fucking love you_, _damnt!" _

Celine took a step back. Stephen hardly ever swore. Result of Imogen's once washing his mouth out with soap.

He'd sworn… and said that he loved her.

"The Angel help me but I do! I love Amatis – and I love you! And I – I'm…" his voice continued to rise, until he paused to search for a word. "And I am so _angry _at you right now." He growled through clenched teeth.

"Angry at me? _You're _angry? I suppose that makes sense, doesn't it – I've been pretending not to notice your lying for months while you write to your ex wife while I'm sitting over here _pregnant with your baby,_ and _you're _angry with _me!_?" Molten fury rocked through her like an erupting volcano. She wanted to hit something, throw something, break something. Maybe his nose.

"Yes I am!" he folded his arms across his chest indignantly.

He looked so petulant standing there with his pouting lips, accusing eyes, and crossed arms that Celine couldn't help – and couldn't believe herself – the laugh bubbling out of her lips.

_Ridiculous, ridiculous man. Men are idiots. And babies. Men are such children! Immature and just… just… _

And just everything that made her hopelessly in love with him – no matter his childish and idiotic reasoning.

Stephen's brow furrowed. "You're laughing."

"Yes," Celine gasped between laughs, clutching her sides.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm angry!" he insisted, but his eyes were lightening, the thunder blue turning to the clear crystal after the storm.

"And I… am _furious_… with you!" she swore, still unable to stop the giggles from emitting from within her.

And now Stephen was laughing too, his low rumbling chuckle coming from deep within his chest. Despite herself, she fell against him. He wrapped his arms around her.

It was simply instinct.

After a minute, when they had finally managed to stop laughing and their breathing had slowed, Celine turned her face into his shoulder. "Damn you," she muttered.

"You, too," he whispered into her hair. His voice sounded sad.

She pulled away.

"You love me?"

Now he rolled his eyes. "Of course I do, you silly woman."

She frowned. "Is it really so silly for me to doubt, after all?"

His frown mirrored hers. "No," he sighed after a moment. "I suppose not." His hand fluttered to her head and he began to stroke her hair. "I knew it was wrong. I should have told you everything – should have been telling you everything the moment I thought… I just…"

"Tell me." She insisted. "You know you can."

He grimaced. "These things… Celine, they're bad."

"Tell me anyway."

"You won't like them. You may resent me for even thinking them."

Her brow creased. "I don't know what force on earth could make me resent you. Well, aside from convincing me that you love me when you don't, marrying me, getting me knocked up, and then leaving me. That aside…" she took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "You are my husband, and I love you."

Stephen took her hands in his. "Your hands are cold," he whispered, not meeting her gaze. "Let's go back to the den. You'll be warmer by the fire."

Celine didn't object as he led her back to the sofa and the blazing heat emitting from the grate. She sunk into the cushions, tucking her feet beneath her as Stephen wrapped a blanket around her. Then he sat back, his face looking tired and worn.

"I initially wrote to Amatis to tell her we were getting married," he said slowly. "I didn't want her to be blind-sided by the news. That wouldn't be fair."

Celine nodded. She had expected as much. He was a good man, and he loved Amatis. He would have wanted to be as fair and kind to her as he could be in an unfair situation.

"I told her that despite everything, my feelings for her would never change. And I told her that despite even that, I do love you, Celine." He paused, his brow furrowing. "It is difficult to discern… to explain… how that is. But please, never doubt the truth of my feelings for you. They are not the same as those for Amatis, but they are real."

His eyes were steady as he rested his hand on her knee. _This_ was honesty. "I believe you," she whispered.

Stephen nodded and drew back a fraction, as if her belief in him was a precious thing, and he needed a moment to tuck it safely away into the secret box that stowed all the treasures of his heart. Celine felt herself melt a little.

"She wrote back. She was… well, as you could expect her to be. But she was kind and wanted to know that I would be happy. She wrote some about what she was doing and so I wrote back – it just became a correspondence. We had been such a crucial part of each other's lives for so long, I think it was easier than shutting each other out completely. And I should have told you about it.

"We wrote about many things – sometimes the Circle would come up. I had mentioned some things I had… noticed… and began to notice more of."

"Things?" Celine prodded, unsure of what things he could have noticed that would make him speak so cryptically.

His eyes darkened, but his voice was gentle. "Some things about… about Valentine."

She could tell he was measuring her reaction. "About Valentine?" she couldn't hide her surprise. "What about Valentine?"

Now he took her hands in his. "Celine, will you promise me to listen with an open mind? To think before you reject what I am to say."

She nodded slowly in agreement.

"There have been moments over the past several months when I have seen flashes of a darkness in my friend. You know his view of the Clave and the Accords as well as I do,"

"Of course. And I thought you agreed with him?" she asked in puzzlement, drawing her hands back slowly.

"I agree that the Clave has been corrupted for quite some time," he nodded. "I agree that there are many things they allow to pass that are unacceptable. What happened to you, for instance," he ran a hand through his hair warily. "And what has passed with the Accords… well. His logic is… not unreasonable. We were put on the earth to rid it of demons. It makes sense, I suppose, to think that perhaps the Angel also intended for us to rid it of _anything _of demonic origin. The creatures that kill and torture humanity.

"But I am not sure that I believe that applies to all Downworlders. I have met many throughout my life; Warlocks who have aided the Nephilim, werewolves who have fought with us a time or two in battle. Those Downworlders are people I have regarded as… just that, really. People. They are not the monsters that were put on the earth to suck it dry of life and leave it as dry and dead as Edom. They can be monsters. But so can anyone. I don't believe it is an inherent trait."

"Okay," Celine nodded. She agreed. There were Downworlders, like the warlock who had helped her escape from Paris, who she would have qualms beheading simply because of how they were brought into the world. "Did you mention that to Valentine? He listens to you – you're his closest friend. I'm sure he would –"

"He wouldn't," Stephen shook his head vehemently, his voice firm. "He _believes_ they are monsters, like a devout man believes in God. And he believes that to destroy them is our – his – divine mandate. I suggested… once, that we should spare the life of a young werewolf… the parents were clearly guilty but the child…" he closed his eyes a moment, and breathed deeply before opening them again. "He said it was near treason to the Circle, to suggest it. That we must kill the spawn of evil even if no evil had been yet committed; to prevent more evil from happening. I saw the way he looked at me. He _hates_ Downworlders. All of them. Not for what they do but for what they are. I… don't feel as though I can commit to that."

He hung his head, as if in shame.

Celine thought for a moment. Stephen was a good person. Clearly, he was not above making mistakes. But in this matter, in the matter of what is moral, ethical – in the matter of his honor as a Shadowhunter – he was not one to make a mistake. He would have thought about it endlessly, tortured himself, until he was sure he'd come to the right conclusion.

"You want to leave the Circle," she said quietly, looking up at him. She wasn't sure what to think. There was no denying that Valentine's, the Circle's, initiative was not one that Stephen could follow. And probably not one that she could follow herself. She had always admired Valentine's passion. It was… awe inspiring. His passion and dedication to those things he believed in.

But perhaps, if what Stephen was saying was true, Valentine's passion had driven him down a road that was too dark. Perhaps passion had become zealousy. It was a path that Stephen, and then of course she herself, could not follow.

But to leave the Circle would be to leave Valentine. Their closest, dearest friend. Where would Celine be without him? Where would she have gone? She would not be who she was today without him. She wouldn't have Stephen. They would not have their son. The son that Valentine was always so generous towards, all the tisanes and teas and potions that had made her pregnancy like a dream… that would make their son strong and healthy.

She caressed her stomach lightly, absently.

"We cant," Stephen replied, and she looked at him quizzically. "We can't leave the Circle," he repeated.

"Then what – "

"If we left, he would never forgive us."

"But if you say you can't participate in what he's planning, there's really no choice but to leave."

"There's more," Stephen's lips moved almost unperceptively. His lashes cast shadows along his cheeks as he looked up to her. "There was something that Lucian told Amatis, mentioned really, to Amatis before he was bitten. About Valentine's cruelty towards Downworlders, that perhaps he had taken it too far…"

"What? You got the idea from Amatis?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I mean he told Amatis he'd talk to Valentine about it, and then two days later, he was bitten."

Celine gasped. "What –" she choked out. "You think Valentine – our _friend_ – what? _Planned _for Lucian to be bitten? To take him out of the picture?"

Stephen's head hung once again as if ashamed. "I suspect it may be true."

Celine swallowed. She wanted to reject the idea out of hand. There was no possibility that Valentine could be capable of such malice – not Valentine who had saved her and brought her to this life she loved. But Stephen was her husband. He had asked her to keep an open mind. She held back the words, stuck in her throat.

"Amatis spoke more of it in her letters. It was much the same of what she had been saying before our divorce, but this made more sense to me after what I had seen. After the girl's brother was bitted by one of the Night Children, and she asked to join the Circle, and Valentine said that she may only if she brought her brother's ashes to him… Some peculiar pieces of evidence against Downworlders who had been known to be peaceful…"

Celine let out a breath through her teeth. "You really think he did that to Lucian?"

Stephen's head moved in affirmation. She bit her lip.

"Which is why we can't leave the Circle. If I thought it would simply result in the end of our friendship – while not a happy thought – I wouldn't hesitate to leave. But I am…" his eyes clung to Celine's like a wish upon a star, "I'm afraid," he whispered. "If I speak a word against his plans – that would be bad enough. My fate could be the same as Lucian's. But if we left… he would kill us both for what we know. I am sure of it."

Celine's stomach roiled, and her arms moved around her bulging stomach. _No_. Not Stephen, not their baby. _No, no, no_.

Stephen sank in his seat. "You're repulsed by my sacrilegious thoughts,"

"No," Celine looked up. "As much as I don't want to… I believe you. I trust your judgment."

Stephen's eyes shot up to her face. "You believe me?"

She nodded slowly.

His arms were suddenly around her, embracing her. She sighed and leaned into him, clutching to the cloth of his shirt. Tears began pouring down her eyes. This was why he'd been distant. This was why he had been keeping things, why he had turned to Amatis.

It was a feeling of shocking relief.

Mixed with absolute terror.

If Stephen was right, and she knew him well enough to know that he would not make such horrible accusations without evidence and serious thought, they could not make a move without Valentine's noticing.

If they tried to move far away to escape the Circle, even with a pretense of some sort, Valentine would see through it. Any lie they told would be obvious. Valentine was too perceptive. And if they told the truth, he would kill them both. That much made sense. If they weren't with him, they were with the Clave. That was how the Circle saw it. They would be liabilities, people who knew too much. The Circle would have no choice but to kill them.

Yet they could not stay. Not could not stay and take innocent lives while knowing in their hearts that it was wrong. It would destroy Stephen. It would tear him apart. And that would tear her apart.

"What do we do?" she whispered through her silent tears.

His arms around her tightened. "I don't know," he whispered. "I'll think of something."

"I can help –"

"No," he pulled back, but his hands slid to her face, cupping it gently. "You focus on being well. Be strong. For our son," he whispered. "You bring him into the world and I will bring us to a place where we can live without fear. Even if it means leaving… permanently."

"Permanently?" she whispered.

He nodded grimly. "If leaving the Shadowhunters is what it takes, I will do it. You deserve an honorable husband and our son deserves an honorable father. If you will come with me – "

"Of course I will," she said instantly. "Of course – I'll go with you anywhere."

He smiled, and it touched his eyes, warming them in a spark. "I will be the man you married. And I will be a good father. I will do right by my family my name. I'll take us away from this, Celine. I promise."


	16. Chapter 16

It had been three weeks since Stephen had shared his concerns with his wife, and Celine had been on bed rest ever since. It was the best excuse to keep her safe at home, and to have Stephen return more frequently to be with her.

January had swept in like a winter storm, shocking in its cold. Every night Stephen would come home looking more and more worn – the stress eating away at him with vicious persistence. "Pretending to be okay is monumentally exhausting," he'd told Celine one evening. He spent all day with Valentine, planning and plotting – only to come home and try to escape from, to undo, all of it.

Celine, even on bed rest, hadn't been able to escape Valentine entirely. He still came to her and delivered the tisane that made her feel oh, so much better. It was equal parts wonderful and horrible. On the one hand, the tisane did wonders for her aches and pains and exhaustion. On the other – it reminded her of the friend she trusted and adored. Valentine had always been good to them. It felt like a betrayal to that man, avoiding him and planning to leave him now. But, no matter how guilty she sometimes felt, Celine trusted Stephen implicitly. If he believed in Valentine's cruelty, it must be there.

Finally, one evening he came home, alight with excitement.

"I've spoken to the warlock, Tessa Gray," he announced, falling into the couch and pulling her close to him. "She can help us."

"A warlock? How can – " How can she help? How can we trust her?

Stephen smiled weakly. "She happens to be my great-great grandmother, you see," he said, and held up a finger to calm her onslaught of questions. "She was the child of an unmarked Shadowhunter and an Eidolon demon – my grandfather's grandmother, and he adored her. She's family, so we can trust her implicitly."

Celine simply decided to go with it; Silent Brothers parabatais and warlock grandmothers. Herondales were unique that way.

"She will go to Magnus Bane – High Warlock of Brooklyn. He will find us a safe house somewhere in America. They will enchant it, prevent us from being tracked or location by anyone other than the enchanter. They will open a portal for us outside the Idris borders so the Clave cannot trace it. Then we will escape to… wherever, and Tessa will stay behind; she will take my form and stay in my place for a short while until we are sure we are safe. By the time they realize we've left, we'll be unreachable."

"When?" Celine whispered. When would they have to leave the Nephilim, their people, their family, for an indefinite period of time?

"We leave in three days," answered Stephen. "I told Tessa it could be no later – Valentine knows I haven't been wholly myself lately, and he is not a man to take chances."

"Three days," Celine nodded. Her brain launched in to mother-bear mode. "We will bring nothing but the essentials – if someone saw us leaving with too much they might say something. Some clothes – a few things for the baby if he comes too soon – "

"We'll meet Tessa on the French border at dawn," agreed Stephen. "Nothing but those things we absolutely need." He took her hands in his. "We will leave until this is over. Or forever, if we must. I will keep all three of us safe."

Celine nodded silently, trying not to tremble.

"And if something should happen to me…" Celine began to object to this but he squeezed her hands gently to quiet her. "I want you to send a fire message to Tessa Gray _immediately _and get yourself to safety."

Celine grimaced. "Fine," she agreed. "But only because nothing is going to happen to you. We can survive the next three days."


	17. Chapter 17

Stephen had kissed Celine's lips so softly it almost didn't wake her, on that last morning of his life. As it was, he smelled like bacon, and Celine was hungry. She had smiled, eyes closed, and whispered "I love you," in unison with him. She had squinted her eyes open only with enough time to see him walking out of their bedroom door.

During the day, she cleaned the house and organized their things. She fed the horses, and sighed, looking in at the empty stall where her son's thoroughbred was supposed to be kept. Though, it was little to give up if they could be free.

She gathered the things they would need for their dawn ride; fresh clothes, some food, a small assortment of weapons, a set of warm baby clothes and blankets. It was all methodical, easy work to keep her distracted – but it didn't keep her heart from pounding.

Finally, she succumbed to her nearly full term pregnancy exhaustion and fell asleep on the couch before the fire, curled up beneath a tapestry blanket of the Herondale family tree that had been a gift from Imogen and Marcus at Christmas. It was thick, a sturdy, wholesome brown with names and dates attached in scrolls to the branches of the tree. Celine's eyes lingered on the names of the men as she began to drift; so many good, strong names… Edmund… William… James…

When the doorbell rang Celine sat up with a start. Her heart was pounding, she felt the chill of a cold sweat all over her, and water leaking from the corners of her eyes. She'd been crying in her sleep? She could hardly remember the dream she'd been having; it had been gold – but dreams weren't colors! – all a beautiful, molten gold… and a warning…

The doorbell rang again, accompanied by a knock. Celine collected herself, and stood. She wiped the moisture from her face, wrapped the blanket around herself, and went to the door.

When she opened it, she had to suppress a scream.

There stood Valentine in all his glowing, fair glory – drenched in blood. It was everywhere – clumped in his hair, splattered across his face like arterial spray, stained on his hands like Lady Macbeth…

Celine clapped a hand over her mouth, and her heart spun into overdrive. _Please let me be dreaming – please let this be a nightmare._

"Celine," Valentine croaked, and his eyes were sad – a heart shattering look of loss and confusion.

_Please no… _a voice in her mind begged.

"I'm so sorry, Celine…"

_No! No, no! Please, no, please – oh please…._

"I – I am so, _so terribly sorry_… there was… there were… unexpected, and – we didn't know – and Stephen – "

Cline was about to begin to scream, to fall to her knees and to beg the universe that he would not speak the words.

"Stephen is dead."

One by one, the pieces of Celine's heart shattered. Everything was on fire. Everything was frozen. Nothing was right – everything inside her felt wretched and wrong and lost and yet there she stood – frozen, staring at the man before her.

"It was supposed to be a routine raid," she heard Valentine as if through water logged ears. She heard words like 'vampire nest' and 'bravely sacrificed himself'' and 'no on regrets it more than I.'

She didn't believe a word of it. The likelihood of both Lucian _and _Stephen dying at the hands of Downworlders while Valentine was near? It was a lie.

It couldn't be real.

_No, no, no_…

She was hot; sweating. She was freezing; shaking. She wanted to be sick – she wanted to never move again – she wanted to cease _existing_.

_No_.

_NO_.

Her life was not over. She had promised Stephen; For the sake of their son. For her son, she would be strong.

The tears running down her cheeks, for once, did not make her feel weak.

But she knew that she had to feign it.

"Wh-what?" she used her trembling to her advantage.

"Oh, dear Celine," Valentine opened his arms to her, welcoming her to his embrace. She couldn't help it; she flinched.

He noticed, and drew back. She prayed he believed it was the residual effect of her childhood. Their eyes met – and though he hid it well, she now had no doubt that Valentine Morgenstern had killed her husband.

Did he see her, too? Could he see that she knew?

She needed to reach Tessa.

Celine sunk to the floor, gripping herself tight and bowing her head. Hiding her expression, she began calculating her chances. "What do I do?" she moaned, and choked out a sob, covering her face with her hands.

Valentine knelt beside her. "Hush, dear one," he murmered, and she only shook harder at the sound of it. "You get your coat, and come with me now – they are already preparing his body for the ceremony – you must be there to say the last farewells."

_His body_. Celine nearly retched right there on Valentine's shoes. Stephen was _gone._ He would never hold their son – never laugh or smile or cry or slay another demon or wrap his arms around Celine ever again.

Celine's hands shook so hard she thought they might fall off. Fear and fury coursed through her like fire. She pressed her palms into the ground and pushed herself up with all the mental and physical strength she possessed. Valentine rose with her.

"I should change," she said in a dead voice. "My mourning dress is – "

"I can retrieve it," Valentine offered.

"No – I… I'd like a moment alone. Please." Their eyes met, and she made her own look as pleading as she could. He seemed to be calculating. She couldn't afford his calculating.

Slowly, Celine rose to her tip toes, and pressed her lips to Valentine's cheek.

"You've always been so good to us. I know you did everything in your power to save him."

_Let those be the last words he hears from me_, she thought. She hoped that he might live with the guilt of his betrayal and the shame of his cruelty and treason against the Nephilim.

Celine turned her back and made her way up the stairs.

As soon as she was out of Valentine's sight, she ran toward the bedroom. She rushed to the window and dropped the escape ladder they kept for emergencies out into the void, turned to the wardrobe and extracted a dagger, shoved it into her thigh holster, and skidded to the writing desk, pulling a paper and pen to her fingertips with a frenzied speed.

_To the Warlock Tessa Gray,_

_Stephen has been killed – I believe at Valentine's hands_

_I will be at the French border as quickly as my horse can run_

_Please – help us_

_In Raziel's name,_

_Celine Her-_

The paper was plucked from beneath Celine's fingertips before she could finish signing her name, and she looked up, startled and horrified.

Valentine held the letter in his hand, standing only inches away from Celine. His black eyes, always so warm and kind, were now cold and distant. His gaze alone made Celine flinch, and her hands flew to her stomach. Valentine's eyes followed the movement greedily. After a moment he tore his eyes away, glanced at the open window, and began to read the letter.

Celine took an unperceptively small step backward, letting a hand fall away from her womb. She wrapped her fingers around the bird-sculpted hilt of Stephen's letter opener…

"Do you really distrust me so, Celine?" Valentine's gaze moved to her face. "Have I not been a good, generous friend?" his mouth pouted with what Celine suspected was mock hurt and sincerity.

Celine's voice was tight when she answered. "Of course."

"Then why have you and Stephen conspired against me? Against all we have worked for?"

"Because the ends do not justify the means," she responded through gritted teeth.

His eyes hardened. "Killing guilty, murderous Downworlders is now too bloodthirsty for – "

"Killing Lucian Greymark because he saw the darkness within you is too bloodthirsty for me," she spat.

Valentine pursed his lips. "I did not kill Lucian."

"I will believe you had nothing to do with it," Celine countered, "if you can look me in the eyes right now and tell me you did not just _murder_ my husband in the woods as easily as you would put down a disobedient dog." Her voice shook with rage. The two of them glared at each other. Celine wanted to hit him, to scratch his face with the edge of the letter opener. But she was trapped in his black stare…

"Sometimes," he began. "We must do things we would rather not, for the greater good."

Celine's open palm collided with the side of Valentine's cheek, her nails raking the skin open to reveal that even Valentine Morgenstern could bleed.

In his frozen state of shock Celine sprinted toward the window, daring to make her third story escape – but his hand gripped her arm before she even got close, and dragged her back into the room, nearly dislocating her arm with the force of it. Letter opener in hand she slashed outward, the edge cutting his hand and forcing him to release her. She backed into the wardrobe – there was a long sword leaning against it. She grabbed it, and held it steady before her.

"Do not come near me!" she growled.

Valentine's eyes appraised her, and an eerily calm smile touched his mouth. "You know you cannot match me in combat, Celine. Be reasonable. I am prepared to offer you leniency…"

"As you did with Stephen?"

"Stephen did not have something I wanted… if you give it to me, you are free to live the mundane life you so desire from your Warlock friend."

"You've already taken Stephen, what more could you want from me?"

Valentine's eyes slowly glazed Celine's body – not sensually, but in a greedy, hungry manner. His eyes rested upon her womb.

Celine gasped. "No!" she backed away again, hitting the wardrobe behind her. "You _have_ a son!" she accused.

"I do have a son, true," Valentine nodded as if they were talking about this year's cumulative rainfall. "But I need yours as well. You see it all would have worked perfectly if you and Stephen had not betrayed me. You both could have lived on with your son, allowing your dear friend to tutor and to train him. But now…" he sighed as if he cared about what he planned on doing next – as if he could regret it. "Now you both must go."

In an instant, Valentine's hand had grabbed the edge of the sword, ignoring the metal digging into his hands, dragging the sword out of Celine's grasp. The force of it pulled her forward and nearly, due to the mismanagement of her pregnant equilibrium, fell forward. She let out a terrified scream, just as she felt Valentine's fingers rope themselves into her hair and roughly drag her forward. Her knees hit the ground and the sharp pain sent tremors through her bones and all the way up through her spine. Celine gritted her teeth in pain and braced herself with her palms as she hit the floor. Her eyes immediately went to the underside of the bed before her, and she pulled out a dagger from beneath its supporting beams with wicked speed. She rolled onto her back – the blade making contact with Valentine's shin as she sliced ferociously.

"Argh!" Valentine growled, and kicked her in the shoulder. She took the blow as she always had, rolling with it to absorb the force of it, and onto her back. Valentine knelt over her stepping on her hand and forcing her to drop the dagger. With his forearm he blocked her attempts to claw at his eyes, but she kicked out and hit his groin. He growled, black eyes finding hers and making her go cold – but his grip loosened enough for Celine to pull her arm free and, with a well-placed blow, break his nose.

Celine squirmed free from him and scrambled for the door. _Weapon, give me a weapon! _There was a rubbing-stone on the nightstand, and she grabbed it as quickly as the could. She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the ache in every inch of her.

With a roar, Valentine was on her. He pulled the neck of her nightgown, yanking her backward and choking her. His hand wrapped around her write and twisted until she screamed, dropping the stone. He threw her backward upon the bed.

He was too strong – and suddenly he was no longer Valentine. He was none of the things he had ever been but calm, collected – methodical. He would kill her in precisely that manner.

"Please!" Celine cried. A human was in there somewhere – a man with a wife and son of his own. If that man was still there, maybe… "Please – not my baby, _please not my baby_!"

"I'm not going to kill it, ignorant child," he whispered into her ear. "I'm going to raise him as my own. You could do worse."

This only made Celine thrash harder in wild terror. "No! Please don't take him, please don't take him – I love him, please don't take my baby!"

She clawed and kicked and twisted and screamed, all to no avail. No – no this couldn't be it, this couldn't happen, not to her son…

"_Stop moving_." Valentine hissed, and through bleary, tear filled eyes Celine could see a dagger rising slowly in his hand.

"No!" she screamed.

Valentine brought the dagger down with clinical, calculated precision and terrible force. The blade sunk, hilt deep, into the upper edge of her abdomen.

Celine wasn't even sure she screamed, all she knew was pain and terror. It enveloped her and drowned her and shook her and she knew she was going to die.

The dagger dragged through her and her head swam. She could no longer move; the pain was so great it paralyzed her, and she could feel terror pulling her into darkness, her mind resisting the pain of reality.

Two sharp slices against her arms – almost gentle in comparison to the pain she felt – and she felt the thick heat of blood stream down her arms. Everything was going dim and black….

"_I love you,"_ she whispered, or maybe just moved her lips; her first and last words to the crying baby boy she knew was being cut away from her right then. In her mind, she imagined his name – finally, in this moment, the perfect name. She thought the name with all her heart, and wished that he would live a safe, happy life – that he would know how his parents loved him, how his mother's love for him would never fade even in death.

There was no breath without pain. There was no thought without fear. But as everything faded, Celine could hear her son's cries, and a smile pulled at her lips as she died.

Valentine Morgernster lay Celine Herondale's body down in its grave. With the child safely retrieved – what a mess _that_ had been – he had been able to sew her tight, clean away the blood, redress her and arrange her body in a convincing, self-inflicted manner. He had sent a fire-message to Michael and Robert, telling them that at the news of Stephen's death, Celine had taken her own life.

By dusk, everyone in Idris (and likely many more) knew her shame.

Celine was buried in her disgraced grave before the sun even set – destroying the despicable, gruesome evidence of the events that day. Stephen's body was burned far away from hers, where his parents, friends, and ex-wife mourned with sobs and broken hearts.

With the help of Hodge Starkweather, Valentine took the Herondale boy to a hidden location, never to be seen by another soul for ten years.

The Herondale boy would never know the name his mother thought of when she whispered her loving farewell. He would never ride the prized thoroughbred his father had selected for him, or know the warmth of their smiles. The Herondale boy would never know what they would have sacrificed for him, or how desperately they loved him; Until now.


	18. Chapter 18

**2008**

All was silent in the Institute, only the sounds of the New York City traffic disturbed the calm. It was a brilliantly sunny day, the heat of the days before all but forgotten. It was so beautiful that even the Shadowhunters would normally be taking a reprieve from their divine mandate, planning a trip to Coney Island or the beach to leave the worries of demons and Downworlders behind.

But instead today everyone sat still as statues, nervous. Alec and Isabelle had come down even earlier than usual, and Maryse had yet to shut her eyes. She sat beside Jace in the kitchen, her hand over his. He had tried going to sleep, and had failed miserably. He had decided to wander the halls until he had found Maryse in the study, a book in her lap. One look at him and she'd shut it immediately, gone to his side, and wrapped him tightly in her arms. She didn't say anything, much to Jace's appreciation, but stayed with him until the morning light shone through the windows.

Clary had arrived shortly after Alec and Izzy had come downstairs, a groggy Simon with her. Together, she and Izzy made up a large breakfast, though Jace only picked at his whole-wheat toast and could manage only a few sips of his orange juice. After a few minutes of silence – minus the sounds of chewing and sipping – Izzy had swept down to leave a quick kiss on Jace's cheek before leaving with Simon to begin his training for the day. Alec followed shortly after, mumbling something about being the only one actually old enough to train anyone, but gave Jace a semi-awkward clap on the shoulder as he passed him. Jace appreciated it all the same.

At nine, the doorbell rang. Slowly, Maryse turned to look at Jace. Her eyes were sad, but full of understanding. "Jace," she whispered. He returned her steady gaze, and she hesitated. Then, "Stephen was a good man. He would have been a good father. I hope he can give you what you are looking for."

She stroked his golden hair lightly with her fingers, and then left the room to retrieve the door.

"Shall we head to the library?" Clary asked quietly after a moment. Jace looked at her. In his face she could see every worry etched like a map across his face. Gently, she raised her hand to stroke his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand, and stayed there only a moment before he opened his eyes again and rose from his chair.

"Okay," he said, his face now smooth and impassive, his usual careful façade. "Let's go."

It was exceedingly difficult to stay still. Jace wanted to pace or to do laps or jump from the roof – all of which sounded both wonderful and exhausting – but instead, stood leaning against the desk one could have, a year ago, found Hodge lurking behind. Jace's arms were folded across his chest, and he couldn't quite manage to unlock them to move the stray hair out of his face. Instead, he chewed the inside of his cheek, occasionally switching off to bite his tongue until he could taste the salt of blood.

He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite him. Fifteen minutes after nine. Clary had left out a pair of Stephen's old hunting gear they'd found at Amatis's house on a bed in one of the guest rooms for Tessa, who had told him it would not take long for the Change to take place.

Behind him on the table, Jace had with him Stephen's silver box with his letters and dagger. Beside it, he had placed the Herondale ring. It was the first time he had taken it off since Clary had given it to him.

Thinking about it, the questions he wanted to ask, what he would say, all made him more anxious. He attempted to clear his mind, and began to count the stones on the wall. He did this for several minutes, pausing to breath in through his nose after each stone, knowing that he would pass out if he was not careful to breath, and also somehow unable to unclench his jaw.

107… 108… 109…

_Click_

The soft noise of a door handle twisting pulled him from his distraction, and he watched, heart pounding, as the door creaked slowly open. He no longer remembered to breathe.

A man stepped through the door, and Jace used all the power he had not to pass out on the spot. He stared, eyes bleary and unwilling to focus, as the door moved wider and the man came to a stand still in front of it. Forcing himself to retain some semblance of control over himself, Jace sucked in a breath through his teeth, unaware that he had not been breathing, and stared at the man before him.

Stephen Herondale was tall, an inch or two taller than Jace, with broad shoulders that led down to toned arms, lean and strong, hanging at his sides. He wore standard gear; leather that covered his chest and shoulders, and softer fabric that covered his biceps. He looked young… about twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Still so young, his grey blue eyes still holding the light of youth.

And Jace could see what others had meant when they'd told him he looked like Stephen. They were by no means twins – but… that had the same hair color, the same golden blonde, though Stephen's was cropped short. And in Stephen's face Jace could see parts that were his own, things that he had noticed in a glance in the mirror – the high, sharp cheekbones and angular jaw, the shape of his lips and the point of his nose…

"By the Angel," Stephen whispered, his eyes alight.

Jace felt a shock like a zap of electricity go through him as he heard his father's voice for the first time, and was surprised that he had an English accent – despite having known he'd grown up in London.

Blue eyes full of wonder faced guarded gold in a moment where the air was tangible, every nerve and cell alive and buzzing like a live wire. The silence was deafening as if every one of those buzzing nerves and cells were screaming at Jace. Was it just him? Or could Stephen feel it, too?

There were so many things Jace could say now, and yet words would not come. He couldn't even imagine what words he could possibly say, let along form them on his lips. What words could be enough, could be adequate, for this moment – meeting his father for the first time.

His _father_.

The word bounced around his head like a helium balloon leaking air. _Father! My father! A father! Father! My father!_ And as he stared at Stephen, the word sinking in and his heart contracting with the weight of this moment, despite himself, Jace could suddenly feel the tell tale pressure behind his eyes that he had felt only once since the day he'd held a falcon with a snapped neck in his child's hands.

"By the Angel," Stephen whispered again, his voice full of awe. Suddenly, the wonder and – was that joy? – faded from his eyes, and was replaced my an expression of pure and absolute agony.

_What? No – _Jace's mind spun out of control. What had changed? Had he done something wrong? Was Stephen disappointed? No, no, no…

"By the Angel," he repeated, and this time his voice was strained and broken. Thousands of thoughts flew through Jace's head – all of his imperfections and shortcomings, all the possible defenses and retorts he could use to defend himself, all the walls that he'd built up over the years – "I am… so sorry."

Stephen's voice broke on the last word. Jace wasn't sure if the shock was evident on his face or not.

Stephen took a step forward, and unconsciously Jace felt himself step back. The man before him stopped, seeming to remember himself. His hands, loose at his sides, were shaking.

"Jace," he began again, and the sound of Jace's name on his father's lips threatened to undo him. "_How can I even _begin_ to apologize to you_?"

Jace stared. Well, he hadn't expected _that_.

"It wasn't your fault." The words were out of his mouth before he'd even begun to think them. He bit his tongue. He'd never intended to say those words. Generally he felt bitter whenever he thought about his biological father, who'd died before he was born, all because he'd fallen for Valentine and his lies. And because of that weakness, that naïvity, Jace had been raised by a monster, and then abandoned. Again. He'd loved and grieved Valentine, the man he'd called father, because his real father was never there to be loved or grieved.

But he knew he did not judge Robert or Maryse for the same faults. What right did he have to judge Stephen? He remembered his epiphany the other day, talking to Tessa. _It was because Alec, Izzy, and Clary all had parents who loved them, and Jace had grown up an orphan. _

The thought made him sick; That _this _was the father he should have had. Simultaneously, he felt guilty, as if his longing for Stephen Herondale to have raised him was a betrayal to man who _had _raised him. And again, another wave of guilt for his loyalty – no, his… affection – some feeling of once loved now lost… for Valentine, who had murdered his true father, who had left him by _choice_.

Stephen hadn't had a choice.

Stephen's eyes met his, and they sparked a little at the sound of Jace's voice – but it did not erase the sadness.

"No," he whispered, just loud enough for Jace to hear him from his stance little more than ten feet away. "It was. It _was_. My parents warned me, Amatis warned me… and still, I trusted Valentine. And because of that- my own blind faith and stupidity – my _son_… I wasn't there for you." His voice shook, and he bowed his head, as if too ashamed to look Jace in the face as he spoke. Jace stared with his eyes wide. "God, the things you've endured… I cannot even begin to beg your forgiveness."

He paused, and raised his head to return Jace's gaze. "I am sorry I was a fool, that I wasn't there to stop your mother – to raise you or to get to know you. Believe me when I say I would have given anything –" His voice cut off on a choked sound, and his hands clenched into fists as he moved to hold the back of the nearest chair, as if he could hardly stand.

Jace's legs shook beneath him, his arms across his chest failing to hold him still. Emotions warred within him, wanting to rebuff the apologies, the pleas for forgiveness and simultaneously wanted to collapse to the ground and let the loss consume him, to share in the grief that they both so clearly felt. He could feel the blood burst from his tongue and he opened his lips a little to suck in a breath as the salty taste poured through his mouth. The strain of holding himself together would make him bleed, he knew, as he felt the nails of his fist dig into the skin of his palms.

And then…

"Ihatecucumbers," Jace said suddenly, and was aware he'd said it so fast that it sounded more like _I ate caterpillars_.

"What?" Stephen asked, his expression surprised and confused.

"I hate cucumbers," Jace said again more slowly, trying to control the shaking in his voices and in his body. "And I really like corndogs – but only the ones at Coney Island. My favorite weapon is a long dagger – I used one to kill my first demon when I was ten. My favorite color is green. I don't like winter, because of the cold. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen – she was seventeen. I prefer Pepsi to Coke and I like the cookie part of the Oreo better than the stuffing. My girlfriend's step-dad is a werewolf and my _parabatai_ is probably going to marry a warlock. I make my bed every morning and… I loved Valentine. I hate him for who he was and what he did and for leaving me, but he raised me, and I loved him. And I know I shouldn't have and I'm sorry.

He paused to suck in a breath, his arms loosening and falling to his sides, though his hands were still in fists. Then he cocked his head to the side for a second as if thinking. "And I hate ducks." He added as an afterthought.

At Stephen's blank stare, he breathed in again and said, "Now you know something about me." Then, thinking for a moment, "Unless you are omni-cognoscente after death and already knew those – "

"You hate ducks?" Stephen asked, his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide.

Jace made a face. Perhaps being dead rattled one's brains. "Of all of that – I just told you I killed a demon when I was ten and that I lost my v-card at fourteen to an older woman – and _that _is what you picked up on?"

Maybe the change wasn't as solid as Tessa had thought. Or worse – what if Stephen Herondale was just _dumb_?

"No, no –" Stephen shook his head as if in a daze, and moved toward Jace excitedly. Jace simply stared in confusion. "It's just that – my grandfather, Owen, when I was small, told me that the first lesson every Herondale must learn is to never trust a duck."

"Never trust a duck?" Jace repeated. He wanted to say it sounded absolutely absurd, but… it also sounded like sound reasoning to him. In fact, it wasn't too different from his own admonishments against the ducks in Central Park to Clary.

"No one ever told you that?" asked Stephen. "No one ever mentioned a fear of ducks to you? Or any horrible duck-related interactions?"

"No," answered Jace. "There were ducks at the Wayland manor in Idris – in the pond. They terrified me. Valentine always said geese were the bastards of the bird world, but the ducks used to chase me around the yard. The little bastards,"

Stephen stood absolutely still, a smile still on his face, but looking like he'd just stepped off the thrill rides on Coney Island "Either I'm right, and all ducks are inherently evil, or it's bloody genetic." He said in awe.

"Do all Herondales hate cucumber, too?" Jace asked warily. Stephen laughed and moved closer – and this time, Jace didn't back away. "I, for one, love cucumbers. Although I hate pickles." He said, and leaned against the edge of a dark, grainy table not far from Jace. "They are cucumbers soaked in evil." He said seriously.

Jace couldn't help but roll his eyes. "That makes no sense. Pickles _are_ cucumbers." Stephen shrugged.

"And whoever created the earth made them perfect the way they were. Humanity is known for taking perfection and disfiguring it into something unnatural."

Now with that, Jace could agree. But he pursued. "Are there any more bits of Herondale wisdom I should know?" he asked with mock sincerity.

"Never use your stunningly good looks for evil," he said with a flash of his smile. Jace could just imagine the swoons of the girls back in Stephen's day. "And modesty is for the unattractive or those will low self esteem. We Herondales were given the gift of beauty – no point in pretending we weren't."

Jace let out a short laugh, smiling despite himself. He wasn't sure when he'd let the stone-faced façade go, but he could feel it deteriorating.

But Stephen frowned. "_How _anyone thought you were a Morgenstern – or a Wayland!" he through his hands up in disgust. "No Shadowhunter family but the Herondales could claim that face," he pointed at Jace with his index finger, sweeping a circle through the air as if to encapsulate his face. "I was rolling in my grave for damn near eighteen years over that,"

"You were?" Jace looked up distractedly. Stephen looked back at him. His gaze was… thoughtful. Considering.

"You know…" he said. "It's very hard to describe… what the other side is like." As he spoke his gaze became very far away, and as if looking through a heavy fog. "I can't – I'm not sure there was any kind of corporeal sensitivity – I cannot remember being or seeing in that place, but I find that I _know _things I otherwise would not. The strongest parts – the things that brought you joy, brought you pain, the things that tested you – I see those things clear as day in my mind, though I know I was not there. In a way… I was always with you, watching you grow. And…" he looked at Jace, his grey-blue eyes somehow incredibly comforting. "I am so _proud of you_, _Jace_. You have encountered and overcome more than most people ever will – and have done so with bravery and grace, kindness and passion. No father could be more proud than I of his son – though I know I have little right to."

Moments of silence passed, in which Jace breathed slowly in and out, trying to maintain his composure. It was _hard_ to hear these things. It was so hard. He felt further from himself than he ever had, being this close to his father. It was _hard _to hear that his father had been there when he'd felt so alone, that someone who cared had been watching when he was lost. It was hard to hear these things when he'd been so sure his whole life of one thing; of his father. Losing his faith in Valentine had been hard; Being given someone else was harder.

It was hard. And at the same time, made Jace feel as if his heart might burst with joy. Despite himself, there was a current running through him. Something inside him recognized him as familiar, _knew_ that the man before him was some part _of him_. And the words that he spoke gave Jace more comfort and faith in himself than anyone in his life – save Clary – ever had. Apprehension was melting, turning into warmth inside him like liquid gold. It became understanding. And in the back of his mind, a voice asking, _could it be possible, that on some deeply buried, subconscious level, that this man, Stephen, was the father he'd been trying so hard his whole life to do right by?_

Mouth dry, Jace stepped toward Stephen – who watched him with eyes full of something Jace could not place. He came to a stop only a foot away, and looked into his face. The pieces of his face he'd seen were clearer now, more defined. It made his heart throb. "I think," he began, casting his eyes down and breathing in, "That I would be proud, too," he said. "To be your son."

Before he could even gauge Stephen's reaction, his father had taken the final step forward, eliminating, for the first time in their lives, the distance that had always separated them, and pulled Jace into his arms.

And after a moment, Jace began to hold him back.

Jace and Stephen sat on the library floor, leaning against a book stack, the picture perfect model of two young men sharing an afternoon of avoiding responsibility. No one would have guessed that were meeting for the first time, or that they were father and son.

Jace wasn't sure how long they had stood there in an embrace. Despite Stephen's youthful appearance, it was an incredibly paternal gesture. Comforting. There was a part of him that contended against the feeling, a part that shouted at him, _You've only just met him! He was never there for you! _But despite that nagging, doubtful voice, he couldn't ignore the feeling that this was _right_. It was okay to feel this way, despite everything. He had only this once to feel this way, and he'd be damned if he held it back.

Could it be like this for everyone who found a parent they had lost? Those who had been adopted or separated and who had sought them out? Jace highly doubted it. He had been prepared to feel alienated, indifferent. He had avoided looking forward to any sense of familiarity – lest it not be there. He had been prepared to be disappointed.

He had _not _been prepared to feel… _happy_.

Perhaps it was that Shadowhunter ties were by nature stronger than other ties – he knew that to be the case when they fell in love. Maybe it was that Stephen was dead, and had watched over him and stayed with him in spirit – that this sense of comfort and familiarity had come from. He was almost certain that meeting a dead parent while still alive was a unique occurrence.

Perhaps it was both, or something else entirely. Whatever the case, Jace had replaced the Herondale ring on his finger when he had retrieved and shown Stephen the silver box.

Jace Herondale; Uniquely him and yet still a part of a brave and honorable family.

Now he sat beside his father, leaning against the stacks, answering and asking questions in turn. Stephen had told him of his upbringing, of Imogen and Marcus and how he had been their golden boy. He told him of how they had expected perfection from him – the weight that he carried from so many years of incredible Herondale men and whose legacy he must continue, the pressure and strain he from his mother even more than his father.

"I loved my mother," Stephen had said. "Of course I did – but I don't think she ever realized how overbearing she could be; sometimes suffocating." He sighed and ran a hand through his blonde hair. "So I rebelled."

He recounted his time in Alicante, meeting Valentine and seeing his vision for Shadowhunters, believing in it. It had only helped that it distinguished him from his law-abiding parents.

"When I was fourteen I was chasing a demon in London – and it went into a Mundane family's home, so I followed it in… I would have gotten the damn thing if the family hadn't had a _duck_ guarding the back door. Of course, it missed the demon, but went _straight_ for my – well, you know…"

Jace burst out laughing.

"I couldn't piss for days." Stephen had said gravely. "And then of course the damn mallard gravy…"

He had asked Jace questions, too. Apparently being dead didn't afford one total access to one's loved one's lives on earth. Or perhaps it did, and Stephen simply wanted to hear these things from Jace – to have a small piece of the hundreds of conversations they should have had.

Jace told Stephen about Maryse and Robert, growing up with the Lightwoods; with Alec and Isabelle and Max. He told him about Clary and how they'd met, and how her faith in him had changed everything. He talked about demons he'd fought, and they shared war stories; their best moves and their greatest kills. They laughed and joked and opened their hearts, basking in the glow of finally finding one another.

As Stephen came to close his story of his acramantula demon and how he and Amatis had fought side by side, Jace was reminded of the most important question he had intended to ask.

"Tell me about my mother," Jace said, knowing full well he sounded like a child asking for a bedtime story.

Stephen smiled, but his eyes were sad. "Celine," he said. "She loved you so much – it is a terrible loss she will never know you."

"She couldn't have loved me that much," Jace muttered bitterly. "She killed herself – she – "

Stephen put his hand over Jace's, silencing him. "I don't know what you have been told about your mother, but in her life I knew her best, and I can tell you that she was one of the strongest, bravest women I ever knew."

Jace stared at his father. Strong? Brave? These were not the qualities of a suicidal person. "Then how can you explain…?"

Stephen grimaced, and heaved a sigh. "Your mother was dealt a harsh hand in her life. I have no way of being certain what happened on the day that she died – nobody does – but I have a theory. Two, really."

"Tell me," said Jace immediately.

Stephen met his eyes. "She grew up in Paris – with her mother and father. She was an only child. Her father was a terrible drunk, and she suffered years of physical and mental abuse. One idea I've head is that after my death, she would have thought she would have nowhere to go. My parents would abandon her as soon as they heard we had still been in with Valentine, and she might have thought she would have to go back to her own parents. Perhaps, if she did kill herself, she did it to protect you from them."

"Protect me?" Jace was incredulous.

"I never said it was right – but yes. She might have thought she was saving you from growing up as she did. Broken, always afraid."

Jace sat with that. He had always assumed it was grief – grief and weakness. But maybe, in some part, that weakness was strength? It was a hard idea to swallow.

"That was why she fell in with Valentine in the first place," Stephen said, breaking Jace away from his pondering. "He was kind to her, and very generous. Probably the first one to reach out to her and treat her with kindness since she had run away from home. She was only eighteen. She was under his wing almost immediately."

"What did they _do _to her?" Jace asked, his voice rough.

"She grew up believing she was a disappointment to her parents. Worthless. Weak. I think I helped her see her self worth. At least, I tried to." The sadness was like a cloud over him; tangible, visible, audible. "But don't let anyone tell you she was weak – or silly. She may have been naïve at times, but she had a will of iron. When she saw injustice or pain it made her fierce and passionate, protective." He smiled when he added, "She used to sing around the house, old love ballads, when she thought I couldn't hear her."

"You loved her," said Jace, surprised.

Stephen met his eyes. "I did."

"But what about Amatis?"

His expression turned sad again, and Jace could see the pain and heartbreak across his face. "Amatis…" his voice was thick. "Amatis was the love of my life."

"Then how could you leave her? How could you marry my mother just because Valentine told you to?" Jace was aware his tone was sharp and accusing. He imagined Clary, how _no one _could have said anything to make him leave her.

"You're right," said Stephen, surprising Jace. "I was a fool. I didn't see Valentine's manipulation. Amatis and I had our own problems… when Lucian… when that happened, I could see how much it tore at Amatis. We fought about it when Valentine asked me to be his second. I convinced myself she would grow to resent me – with Valentine's help," he added bitterly. "So I left."

Jace screwed up his face in frustration. "And Valentine just… shoved Celine at you and said 'Hey! How about this one!'?"

"Of course not!" Stephen defended, "He certainly rallied for our relationship – but it seemed more out of concern for me than for himself. And Celine and I were friends before he even got the idea. She was in the Circle before Amatis and I were divorced…" his small smile returned. "And she was sweet. Beautiful and kind. And she didn't take my bullshit. It was hard _not_ to love her, even if it wasn't the way I loved Amatis, even if it wasn't the overwhelming, all consuming love and devotion she deserved… But I did love her, Jace," he said gravely. "Don't let anyone tell you she was weak, and don't believe them when they say I didn't care for her."

"So she wasn't just…" Jace didn't even know what he intended to say. So she wasn't just another girl? Just a surrogate? So he hadn't left Amatis because he had been blindly loyal and cold-hearted? So he hadn't simply married Jace's mother out of the same blind loyalty, that she meant nothing to him, _love_ meant nothing…

Stephen seemed to understand the words unspoken. "No. I loved your mother, and I tried to do right by her. By you _both_." He looked worn with anguish. "Road to hell is paved with good intentions, eh?"

"You mean about following Valentine?"

"I mean about trying to _leave_ Valentine. And following him, yes… but when I realized what he intended to do… I couldn't stay. I couldn't eat or sleep – I wrote to Amatis about it… Celine found out and demanded the truth. And we planned to run away. We couldn't stay and be a part of it – neither of us. We asked for the help of Tessa Gray, but then…"

"He killed you," Jace said, feeling numb.

"Didn't even use the pretense of a bite," Stephen looked like he had a bitter taste in his mouth. "He just ran me through the heart."

And Jace could see it – Valentine's black eyes as he pushed the blade deeper. Because he had lived it.

"You said… before… that you had two theories about what happened to my mother. What was the second?"

Stephen grimaced. "The second is almost worse," he warned.

"I can take it," Jace assured him.

Stephen took a moment before answering. "Valentine knew we planned on leaving him. And after all the effort he put into making you… making you special… it doesn't make sense that he would have let Celine take you away. He was an incredibly perceptive man. If she had been suicidal, and I suspect she wasn't, he would have noticed and stopped her in case it hurt you."

"So then…"

"I think he killed her," said Stephen quietly. "He must have staged it like a suicide so that he could take you without her interference. She loved you more than you could know – she wouldn't have given you up. Nor would she have let him take you if she could stop him."

Jace stared at his hands. If Stephen was right, the man who had raised him was personally responsible for the murders of both his parents. He had loved Valentine. And Valentine had destroyed his family.

Jace thought he might be sick.

Or burn up with rage.

Or just sit there… feeling the loss of his mother as he had never felt it before.

"She would have given anything to make sure her son knew how much she loved him. So would I," Stephen said quietly. "You were the last thing I thought of. And how I would never see you."

Jace looked over at his father. Stephen's anguished face was far away, deep in concentration, staring into the wood paneled floor. The aching and regret was so honest, so real. Stephen had missed Jace his whole life; as much as Jace had missed Valentine when he had thought he'd died; As much as Jace had missed and longed to have known Stephen.

Jace felt the physical ache in his heart, and the moment he wished it in his heart, his father's arms were around him again. Normally he would have felt silly, longing to be held like this, but there was no time to allow his pride to take over. Who knew how long that had left…

He blinked as the sun's rays hit is eyes, and he realized the sun was setting. _No._

"I should go soon," Stephen released him and stood. Jace rose with him. "I wish I didn't – I wish I could stay with you forever."

"Met too," Jace said quietly.

They stood apart for a moment, neither speaking. Then Jace stepped forward. _You only get this once more, _he told himself. He lifted his arms slightly, feeling more awkward that he ever had – but Stephen understood, and put his arms around Jace again.

"We will always have this moment," Stephen said, his voice lulling. "And even when you can't see me, know I'm with you. Death isn't strong enough to keep me from my son – we've proved that much."

A choked sound moved in the back of Jace's throat. _Father, please don't go, _he wanted to say, but knew he could not.

"You are more than I could have ever wished or asked for. If I could think of the perfect son, he would not come close to you."

The sun twinkled, blinding Jace as it fell lower in the sky.

"I am proud of you," Stephen continued, the lullaby still there in his words. "My son. I love you, Jace." It was everything Jace could do not to break. He looked up at Stephen once more. Their eyes met, drinking in the sight of each other. "My boy. My brave, incredible boy." They held each other, neither willing to let the other go.

Jace ducked his head, and began to steel himself. He knew it was coming, he knew he would have to be strong again. "Goodbye, Father," he whispered.

"I will always be with you," Stephen answered. Jace began to tense again, willing himself not to lose control. "My son," murmured Stephen gently, his final goodbye.

Jace could feel the change – feel the lean, toned muscle become the softer shape of a woman, the deep English baritone returning to the familiar gentle accent. But Jace didn't let go. He shook. _Strong. _He told himself. _You're strong. Don't fall apart._

"Shhh," Tessa soothed, and kept her arms around Jace, rocking him slowly. "My boy, oh my brave, brave boy," she whispered as he shook in her arms. "You are _good_," she murmured into his ear once.

Somehow, Tessa managed to pull him to the ground with her, steadying him. A tear fell down his cheek, and then no more.

He sat beside Tessa and she held his hand, her thumb tracing patters into his skin. She kissed his hair a time or two, and touched his cheek as gently and affectionately as a mother would.

They stayed there until Clary, Izzy, and Alec burst into the library, with Jem not far behind. Clary rushed to Jace, and he finally released Tessa's hand. She stood with him, and kissed the top of his head once more before he fell into Clary's arms. He could hear Clary saying his name over and over, and in the background he could hear Tessa, her voice exhausted, telling them he was okay, that he would be okay – that it had been hard to say goodbye. He was aware of Clary's hand in his, taking him to his room.

Izzy and Alec walked with him; they were part of his strength. Just as much, and in many ways more, a part of him as his mother and father.

Izzy kissed his cheek before she left, and Alec grinned encouragingly at him and poked his shoulder like only Alec would. When the door shut, Clary crawled into bed with him, and he was holding her tightly, never wishing to relinquish his hold – though he knew she was always there. Warm and strong and steady. His anchor.

Jace didn't know how long it took, but finally, his voice dry and cracked, and said, "I have a father."


	19. Chapter 19

"So was it worth it?" Clary asked the following morning over breakfast at Taki's."

Jace nodded. He had woken, still aching with the same sense of loss he had felt when Stephen had disappeared into Tessa – but stronger. The Herondale ring on his hand, his father's silver knife sheathed safely at his side; they felt like a gentle touch from Stephen - a reminder that he was there. That he had existed. The strength of that conviction wrapped Jace like a blanket as he remembered Stephen's grin, his look of consternation, of amusement – his laugh.

Now Jace walked a little taller, knowing that somewhere his father was there, proud and loving. And even his mother, he felt sure, was somewhere, watching over her son. He wished he could meet her, so badly. But Stephen had been a miracle in of itself, and one did not question miracles. It was something he would never ask from Tessa.

Tessa had held him like a mother, had comforted him in his loss. And then Jem had come for her, exhausted as she was from the Change. They had stayed the evening; Tessa being too tired to travel, and in the morning she had hugged Jace tightly as he thanked her.

"If you ever need me," she whispered in his ear, "Magnus will know how to contact me. Anything at all, I will be here for you, Jace Herondale." She had kissed his cheek, and turned to Clary. "And you too, Clarissa Fray." Clary had beamed at someone using her correct name.

With a last look, Tessa had touched Jace's cheek with her hand, Jem saying his goodbyes to Clary, and then to Jace as Tessa pulled away. "Take care of him!" she had called to Clary over her shoulder, hand-in-hand with Jem, and they disappeared into the New York traffic.

"Yeah," Jace answered Clary. "He wasn't what I expected. He was… good." He ducked his head, a little ashamed. "I sort of thought he would be a bit of an idiot – following Valentine, leaving Amatis…" he shrugged. "But he was a good man," he said with conviction.

Clary reached across the table and took his hand. "I'm glad," she said with a warm smile. "And it sounds like you and he were alike… a little self doubting, but everyone else knows your wroth." Her smile turned crooked, playful.

"We had more in common than you'd think," and an excited gleam appeared in Jace's eyes. "He hates ducks, too."

"You're joking."

"Nope," he said proudly. "Herondale family motto; Never trust a duck."

"Now I _know _you're joking,"

"I never joke. I am always deadly serious. Second bit of wisdom is 'never use our stunningly good looks for evil.' Word for word."

Clary laughed, "_That_ I believe. Like father like son. Must be an Herondale thing. No modesty." She looked at him then, sincerely, serenely. "You've always had a family," she said. "With the Lightwoods… but now.."

Jace smiled. "I have a father."

And on his finger, the Herondale ring beat like a pulse, once and quick.

_I will always be with you. _


End file.
